margofiore - Tumblr blog

margofiore · 6 months

Text

BITE ME

pairing: Vampire!Arthur Morgan x Human!f!reader word count: 3359 words warnings: 18+ minors DNI, explicit sexual content, explicit language, piv intercourse, fingering (r receiving), biting and blood play, vampire feeding authors note: happy halloween my loves! this is a day late, but time isn't real anyway so we can all just pretend it is yesterday... right?? anyway, this au is now living rent free in my mind. i'm obsessed.

taglist:@cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries@delilah-grimes@mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola@the-marsh-harrier @wildfloweroutlaw @photo1030 @luvliewriting@pine4pple-b0i @sickvictorianangel

beta read by @cowboydisaster, divider by @saradika

The wooden panels nailed to the broken windows of the manor allow for tiny slats of moonlight to invade onto your skin, bathing you in a white glow. Peering through the gaps, you can see the distant campfire those bastard Pinkertons set up down by the swamp, but you know they’re surrounding you, boxing you into Shady Belle like fish in a barrel.

It’s been three days of a stalemate, the Pinkertons keeping their distance, brave enough to come with guns and firepower but just cowardly enough to not advance towards the monster they’ve heard only legend of, lest he rip their throats out and drain their life away. No, they’d rather wait around until they can drag his starved body out and be hailed heroes.

That “monster” sits mere feet away from you leaning against the wall, pale skin paler still, his chin tilted upwards as he fights the weight of his own skull. It’s killing you, watching your Arthur grow weaker by the hour. Three days of hiding out in Shady Belle, unable to leave for fear of being hunted for sport, but it’s been much longer since he last fed. They have you trapped, completely and truly. If Arthur held even half his usual strength, it would have been so easy to escape. He’d have overpowered them in seconds, no matter their numbers or firepower. But for that, he’d need to feed on the blood of another, which has made things much harder.

You try to relax your worried features when you see him start to wake, rubbing the crease out from between your eyebrows formed by the frown you hold whenever you watch him sleep, too scared to look away in case he stops stirring.

“Arthur…” You whisper on an exhale, quickly moving to sit beside him on the little bed. As always, his skin feels like marble, cold enough to seep through his shirt and scatter goose pimples over your arms. You’re used to the cold, what you don’t like is the thin layer of sweat coating him. Vampires shouldn’t sweat, but they also shouldn’t go so long without feeding, and the thought of this being a symptom of time running out terrifies you more than any number of monsters out camping in those woods.

“Hey, sweetheart…” Arthur shuffles to make room for you, guiding you to rest your head on his hard chest. There’s normally more muscle here cushioning you from his ribcage, but with Arthur so sick you can feel every bone beneath you.

“You get any sleep?”

There’s always the option to lie so he worries less, but Arthur knows you too well for that, so only the truth will have to do.

You shake your head, “Was keeping watch. They haven’t moved, think they’re still shit-scared of you, actually.”

Absent-mindedly, Arthur’s hand gravitates to the top of your head, stroking your hair in such a way that sends tingles down your spine. Even now, in the midst of perhaps the most danger you’ve ever been in together, his very touch has the power to calm you instantaneously.

He huffs a laugh, though you notice the slight wheeze to his breath when he does and another pang of worry hits you, “Course they are. Call themselves goddamn hunters, couldn’t catch a cold in Colter…” A pause, where you fill the silence with that tiny little laugh you’ve barely been mustering lately, then, “You should get some sleep, darlin’.”

“Not tired.” You protest, almost childishly, burying yourself further into Arthur’s chest. In truth, you’re exhausted, and even though he already knows it, you won’t admit it. You can’t tell him that you’re too scared to fall asleep in case you wake up alone, that there’s no point anyway because nightmares of him withering away to nothing here beside you will drag you back awake soon enough.

You both know this can’t go on for much longer. Something has to be done, and you know you have to be the one to do it. It’s just the convincing…

“C’mon, baby…” He starts, but you won’t hear it. You’re not going to sleep. You’re going to fix this.

“You have to feed on me.” You blurt out, glad to be nuzzled into your beloved’s shirt so you don’t have to see whatever expression your statement has pulled from him.

It’s not spontaneous, no sudden solution that has sprung into your mind this very moment. You’ve suggested it before, albeit never so forcefully, Arthur brushing you off like the idea is unfathomable. Explaining that he would never feed from you, terrified he’d lose control and hurt you. He could never hurt you. If there are such things as absolutes, that is one of them, you know it.

“No.” He’s blunt, clearly hoping his tone had enough force to end it there. But you’re strong, your will to keep fighting for him an everlasting force enough to match his.

“Arthur-” You unravel from him to sit up and meet his eye, yours pleading, his hardened.

“Darlin’, I said no. I mean it. I promised you I would never hurt ya’, and shit have I broke a lot of promises in my life… but not that one. N-Never that one. No.”

“You’re going to die, Arthur. If you don’t do this you’re going to die and you’re gonna leave me all on my own to face those bastards a-and,” Dammit, when did you start crying? “And I can’t do it without ya, Arthur you know I can’t-”

“Yes you can-”

“Well I don’t want to!” You shout, bursting the bubble of quiet around the Manor, your echo riding the wave of birds flocking out of the trees. Sobs threaten to break your strength, but you have to say this. It’s the very last card you have to play. After a few moments, tension between you growing palpable enough to cut with a knife, Arthur closes his mouth, letting you continue.

“Arthur, you’re all I have left… You think I’m a sharp enough shooter to get by them? Fine. But say I kill ‘em all, then what? Find somewhere to live and carry on? I ain’t… I can’t lose you, Arthur. But I can save you, if you let me. Please.”

Time feels as though it stops entirely when you see Arthur actually considering your words. Tears streak your cheeks, but your boots could ignite right on your feet and you might not notice in this moment. He looks so tortured in thought, no doubt imagining the life you would lead if you left him behind. He’s sure you’re strong enough, he knows you can do anything, but his heart breaks thinking of you all alone.

You reach for Arthur’s hands, feeling his cold skin tremble.

“I… What if I lose control? What if I hurt you? Sweetheart, you know what I get like when I-”

“But you won’t. You know how much blood I can afford to give you, and I know you, Arthur. You’d never hurt me.”

You elect not to tell him that any blood that runs through your body belongs to him already, your heart pumping it through your veins only for him.

You don’t tell him you’d die for him, because you know he’d never let you.

He’s silent, contemplating.

Please.

“...You start feeling faint or anything, you fuckin’ tell me, alright?” His tone holds an attempt at sternness, but it bothers you none. You can hardly hear him for the rush of relief flowing over you.

“I-I will. I promise.” And you mean it. The two of you are two entwined souls, neither trusting the other to have enough will to keep fighting if anything happened to them.

Arthur takes a deep breath in, almost like he’s giving himself an extra few seconds to back out of this, before sighing it out.

“Alright.”

The breath that hitched in your throat an age ago releases and you wipe your tears away hurriedly with the back of your hand.

“Oh, thank you, Arthur…” You’re so ecstatic, so grateful that he’s letting you save him that all you can do is launch yourself over to him, kissing him with all the passion the universe has offered you to gift him. Your hands fall to either side of his face, caressing his marble skin in a way that emits a tiny groan from him. Over the last few days, you’ve cuddled up to him a lot, but there hasn’t been much contact like this. Needy and wanting, loving and layered with everything from I Love You to Let Me Save You. Arthur is a starved man, but not just for blood. For you, body, blood and soul.

Arthur snakes one arm around your waist, even with his reduced strength still able to pull you over to straddle his lap. You’d have protested, citing that he’s too sick to be holding your weight like this, but now that this is really happening you’re getting kind of nervous, and the thought of being so close to him, arms wrapped around your frame while he feeds on your blood, comforts you hugely. And there’s no backing out, not from this, so straddle him you will.

Despite everything, Arthur’s cool touch sets you aflame. He trails his fingertips up and down your spine, his other hand firmly gripping your ass. His tongue teases your bottom lip until you open up to him, tasting him as he does you. He tastes…like Arthur. He might argue that he’s some monster, committing evil acts in the name of survival, but you know better. He’s your Arthur, he always has been.

The world melts around you, leaving just you and Arthur, loving each other, saving each other. That one long kiss breaks into smaller ones, until Arthur is peppering your lips, cheeks and nose with tiny kisses, glistening red eyes welling with emotion.

“It was always gonna be you, wasn’t it? You were always gonna save me…” He whispers, almost like he doesn’t quite believe it’s real.

“Always. And you’re gonna save me right back, cowboy. But first…” You look down between your two bodies, to the arm you’re holding out to Arthur.

“Are you ready?”

“Does it hurt?” You surprise yourself with your answer to his question, though you stand by it. You’re not scared, you could never be scared with Arthur. But nervous?

“A little. But I’m right here with you. And if you need to stop or take a break or you start feeling off, tell me or tap my arm.” You nod slowly, placing your hand into Arthur’s, “I need a yes, sweetheart… I can’t do this to you unless you’re sure.”

“Yes, Arthur. I’m sure. Please.”

There is one final, apprehensive glance in your direction, which you reply to with another tiny nod. He raises your flesh to his mouth, flashes of his white fangs visible now in the moonlight as he parts his lips.

It’s… strange. A small scratching feeling when his teeth puncture the skin of your wrist that pinches your brows together. There’s a second of nothing, before Arthur starts to feed and steals the breath right out of your lungs.

It’s like you can feel every vein in your body, all connecting and tugging your lifeforce through to your wrist for Arthur to feast on. You can tell the second the first drop hits his tongue, the shudder that wracks through his shoulders and down his spine. His eyes roll back in… pleasure? You’ve seen him feed before, usually such a violent affair, but this is different. You feel vulnerable to him, and as though you hold every ounce of control all at once.

When he groans, deep carmine eyes locking onto yours, you feel it all over, your thighs clenching around your suddenly wanting pussy.

… An unexpected side effect.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the blood rushing around your body, or even the downright ravenous way Arthur is looking at you while he feeds on your blood, but you seem to be physically squirming on the bed, desperate for any kind of friction you can get. Fuck, you’ve never seen anybody react to being fed on like this… Then again, you’ve never seen feeding look or feel like this.

From even the smallest drop of you, what little colour that remains after his change has returned to Arthur’s skin and he looks much closer to alive than just minutes before. He looks himself again, right down to the cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It does maddening things to you, not at all helping your growing state of arousal.

When his teeth sink out of your wrist, you watch crimson beads pool at two tiny punctures. Without breaking eye contact with you, Arthur lifts your hand back up to him, running the very tip of his tongue agonisingly slowly over the skin, pulling an honest to god whimper from your parted lips.

“You did so good, my good girl…” Arthur coos, an undeniably pleased look upon his face. He’s told you before, that with his heightened senses, Arthur knows when you want him. You also know how energised he gets after feeding, and how all of these factors are leading to a tension so intense between you you’re almost scared of the outcome.

There’s a smudge of blood on Arthur’s lip, one that you reach out to rub away with your thumb. Quick as the predator he is, he grabs your wrist before you can pull away, slipping your thumb into his mouth and sucking the blood gently off. Upon release, he drags one sharpened fang across the pad of your thumb and you shudder, craving that feeling of the bite more than you truly understand.

“A-Arthur…” You whimper, shuddering in pure anticipation and need.

“I know, sweetheart… Christ, I knew you’d taste good, but this? Fuck, you’ve ruined me, baby…”

You can’t wait a second longer, certain you’ll perish unless he is kissing you in the next moment. Entangling your grip into his collar, you find Arthur only too malleable to your touch, all but pouncing on you, locking your lips together. His tongue demands entrance as he easily positions you to be laying under him, Arthur covering the entire length of you and thensome.

“How do you feel, angel?” He asks between kisses, large hands roaming your body, tugging your clothes out of being tucked into each other to make it easier to take them off, “Y’alright? Don’t feel faint?”

“I’m okay. I just- I-I need you, please.” You’re pleading again, this time for very different reasons, “Did you get enough?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you, sweetheart…” He growls, pulling the buttons of your shirt open feverishly. And then his lips are back on your skin, kissing your neck, licking at the skin whilst his hands work your zipper. You moan again, some wanton part of you wishing he would bite down again, marking you all over.

Arthur is losing control in the best way, growling and grinding his erection against your leg as he tries to pull your jeans down. With a little help, he manages, tugging your undergarments with them so you’re completely bare for him.

“So fuckin’ beautiful… my perfect little feast. Fuck, I’m tortured by every second I’m not buried deep inside that weeping cunt of yours,” At that, he runs a finger over your slit, drenching the tip of his finger in your slick, “but I think you deserve a treat for being such a good girl for me…”

There’s no time to consider his offer as he plunges two thick fingers deep inside you, curling them, curling them to hit that sweet spot he knows so well. You scream, absolutely loud enough for any Pinkerton vampire hunters to hear.

“That’s it, huh? That what you needed? That pretty little cunt filling?” He taunts, thumb swirling over your already soaking clit. You can’t speak for crying out, but you manage a nod, feeling yourself stretch around a third finger in a way that has your heart racing even faster.

With your pulse pounding, you can really feel the wounds on your wrist starting to ache and burn. It's a strange sensation, but one that seems to blend into everything else in some twisted bout of pleasure.

Arthur must notice your eyes flickering to it, as he guides your hand back up to his lips with the hand not inside you, pressing the softest kisses over the holes in your skin.

“Look what you did for me… My saviour, my perfect girl…”

“I’d die for you, Arthur.” you confess, the sweetness of his kisses and the languid circles of his fingers pulling you so close to the edge you can feel tears forming behind your eyes.

“It’d never come to that, beautiful. I’d burn the world down before I let your life ever hang in the balance.”

You believe him, too, and the emotion is suddenly too much. You’re hurtling towards an orgasm and you need him closer and all you can seem to think to do is untangle your wrist from his grasp and slip your thumb into his mouth.

He knows what you’re asking for instantly, and you swear you see his inky pupils blow until his eyes are nothing but a reddened void.

“Oh, my pretty little feast…” He groans, pricking your thumb with a fang and sucking gently at the blood. It isn’t nearly as intense as your wrist, but you still feel that tugging everywhere and you can’t stop the lewd moans that fall from your lips as you come undone.

Writing, screaming his name, you feel Arthur suck harder on your thumb, moaning himself at the taste of you. It’s not nearly as much as he was taking before, but enough that your blood blooms over his tongue and fills every one of his senses. He is a man obsessed, and it’s the most beautiful sight as you cum for him.

The waves of euphoria crash over you, each more intense and wonderful than the last. Arthur orchestrates your orgasm through his own pleasure, drawing perfect patterns on your clit in time to his thrusts.

When you come down, he’s there, releasing you from his fangs again to free his lips for yours. Your lips lock together, his body crushing yours into the mattress. You love the feel of all his weight on you, especially when you can feel every pulse of his throbbing cock through the denim of his jeans. Jeans that must go, so you snake a hand into what little space you can between your bodies to reach for his buttons. Arthur helps you, and he’s soon naked on top of you. Wrapping nimble fingers around his shaft, you run your thumb over the rosy head of his cock, swiping at the bead of precum already leaking. He’s desperate for you, and it drives you wild.

You’re already guiding him to your soaked entrance, grinding your hips pathetically, needily. Arthur chuckles softly, taunting you with the smallest of hip movements to slide his tip into you, but stopping there.

“Arthur.” You whine, eyes pleading, cunt dripping for him. Your hands roam the expanse of his back, feeling each muscle twitch under your touch, scratching at the cool skin like a cat in heat.

“I know, baby, I know… I’ll make it better.” He purrs, finally sliding the entire length of his cock into your heat. It stretches you in that beautiful way only he can and you moan, deep and visceral. Your nails leave white scratches across Arthur’s back as your hands float up to cup his cheeks, pulling him into a deep kiss as his groin presses hard into yours.

“Oh, my beautiful girl… I’m gonna fuck you so hard they’re gonna hear you up in Saint Denis… them Pinkertons out there are gonna think I’m draining every last drop of that sweet blood out of your precious little body.”

Such a violent image, but somehow… you enjoy the thought. You’d bleed for him till the end of time, gladly… you’d lay down your life on a slab and be Arthur’s for the taking.

You can’t think of the words to tell him how much you want what he’s telling you, letting the passion guide you to bite down on Arthur’s lower lip. A taste of his own medicine. He has no blood of his own to give, but you’re biting down hard enough to have drawn some if he did, dragging another feral grown from the depths of his throat.

True to his word, with just a few perfectly timed thrusts, you’re screaming his name, cunt fluttering around his thick cock and squeezing every inch of it. That full feeling is so wonderful, so bone-deep and euphoric you’re on the precipice of another orgasm in seconds. He can tell, slowing down and hanging you right over the edge with a wicked grin on his face. You whine and whimper, clawing at the back of his neck to pull him even closer.

“What do you want, little feast? Use your words.” He pushes, still dragging his cock up against your walls in the most torturous of ways.

“I want… I-I need… I-I… urgh!” You cry out in frustration, each syllable leaving your lips earning another thrust that dizzies you to the point of cock-drunk stuttering. Fuck words. You’ll show him.

With a strength you didn’t even know you possessed, you pull Arthur closer, guiding him to the crook of your neck.

“Angel, I don’t know if I can control myself if I taste you agai-”

“Please…” you whimper, rocking your hips up to meet Arthur’s movements, clit grinding deliciously against his pubic bone.

Arthur’s eyes meet yours and you’re lost in them, convinced you’ve never been held so close to climax for so long before, but your body knows what it wants, what it needs to get there with Arthur.

“Fuck, if I could die, you’d be the death of me…” Are the last words he speaks before sinking his teeth into your neck, in perfect time with a deep thrust of his cock. You scream, in pain, in pleasure, all of it, finally falling over that cliff and crashing into the waves below. You drown in your orgasm, dragging Arthur down with you as he sucks the sweet ichor out of your veins. With your blood on his tongue and his name on your lips, you cum together. The vibrations of his carnal moans tickle your neck, layering yet another juxtaposing sensation onto you.

He releases, only to whisper sweet words of praise into your bleeding skin, “Look at you, giving me this… you’re doing so good for me, ain’t ya? My little angel, my good girl…”

And he’s biting down again, and you’re chanting his name, legs wrapped tight around his hips, tears you don’t remember shedding streaking down your cheeks. It feels like you stay there for an eternity, connected mind, body and soul. You would stay there for an eternity with him, if he’d only let you. But that’s another story…

It stings a little when Arthur unleashes his teeth from you, and you wince. His hand is there instantly, caressing the surely reddened skin as his brows pull together, “You okay? I didn’t go too far, did I? Y’feelin’ alright?”

You shake your head softly, a blissful smile gracing your lips, “I’m perfect.”

“Damn straight you are.” He remarks, slowly sliding out of you and lowering his weight onto the bed beside you.

“What about you? How are you feeling?” You ask, entwining your fingers together and holding them up into the moonlight. There's a streak of your blood crossing over a few of Arthur’s knuckles. It suits him.

“Never better.” He says honestly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you, darlin’. I’ll never be able to thank ya’ enough for what you did, but I promise you I’ll get us out of here alive. Well… y’know what I mean.”

You giggle, sure you may never get used to the fact that the love of your life is dead.

“You don’t need to thank me, Arthur. You’ve given me your life a million times, it’s only fair I get to do the same.”

And you mean it. You would do it a thousand times over, giving your life to Arthur while he gives his afterlife to you, saving each other until the end of time.

852 notes · View notes

margofiore · 7 months

Text

⥽ MISS MARGO FIORE ⥼

⤜ 23, she/her virgo, infj ⤜ spotify, goodreads, ao3 ⤜ buy me a coffee ⤜ archive blog @margofiore (all my works together in one place)

⤜ red dead redemption masterlist ⤜ bridgerton masterlist ⤜ marvel masterlist ⤜ moodboard masterlist ⤜ rules for requesting ⤜ fandoms i write for

⥽ LATEST ⥼

⤜ Te Beroya (Star Wars x RDR2 crossover) ⤜ A Job Well Done (Arthur Morgan x reader) ⤜ Fate: A Word Meaning Destiny (Arthur Morgan x reader) ⤜ The Meaning of the Scar (Arthur Morgan) ⤜The Long Night (Arthur Morgan x reader) ⤜ Romeo and Juliet II (Arthur Morgan x reader)

48 notes · View notes

margofiore · 8 months

Text

Te Beroya: II

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: Mandalorian!Arthur Morgan x reader crossover: Star Wars x Red Dead Redemption prompt: 48. “For someone who acts like they hate me, you sure find a way to get me alone a lot.” + 52. “Just because you're pretty, it doesn't mean you can just get away with anything." / "You think I'm pretty?" + 56. “I-I don’t know if I want to yell at you or fuck you.” + 89. “Be careful, sweetheart. Do you really think that's a good idea?” + 90. “You’re playing a dangerous game, girl" word count: 3719 words warnings: sexual innuendos, star wars swears, brief mentions of trauma from readers past authors note: it's here! One last little chapter before I go into full moving mode. Not sure when the next one will be, but Im workin on it!! I love these two crazies, Im not gonna lie. And yes, I went toally ham on that prompt list, but its the best. As always reblogs/likes are appreciated, and if you wanna be tagged in the rest of the series let me know!!

beta read by @cowboydisaster, divider by @saradika

The look shared between you and the 10 foot tall bantha says more than words ever could.

“I am not riding all the way to Mos Espa on a bantha.” You announce, going on instinct to fold your arms in defiance across your chest, before realising your hands are bound. It frustrates you even more and you huff, one more mishap away from stamping your foot like a child.

Arthur seems unphased by your tantrum. Amused, even.

“Well, you got two choices, Princess. You can ride up there with me, or I’m sure Boadicea here will gladly drag you along behind…” You roll your eyes, sighing in great defeat, hating that you’ve lost so much control of this situation so quickly. And of course he’s named the damn bantha.

“Your ‘choices’ suck, you know that? It’s not a choice if one of the options is death or getting dragged across the Dune sea by my broken limbs.”

Maker help him, he laughs, taking that as answer enough and hoisting himself up onto the saddle by the stirrups. You watch on, unimpressed, as he places his helmet back on and it hisses quietly. He extends a hand out to help you up and shuffles back in his seat.

When you figure out how exactly this is going to work, you feel your throat dry up, more so than it already is from 18 hours exposed to the elements of the desert. He wants you in front of him, where your back will surely press up against his chest, literally caging you in with those huge arms to keep his hands on the reins. All that contact…

“No way. We’re not gonna both fit on there.” You shake your head, taking a step backwards. Arthur doesn’t flinch, knowing if you ran now you’d be dead in days, especially with those cuffs on.

“You shoulda’ thought about that before you tried to knock me out and run away, little mouse.”

Anxiety bounces around your frame at the idea. Ever since that night, the one that changed everything, you hate being touched by others, especially in such close proximity. But what choice do you have? It’s getting hot, and you’re not sure you’d survive a trek across the desert on your feet… Plus, possibly more terrifying than death by sand, he was just touching you everywhere, during your fight. And somehow, you didn’t hate it. It wasn’t like every other time you’ve been touched… The feel of his hard body covering the length of you, his bulge prodding firmly against your thigh as he pinned your wrists down deep into the sand…

You’re getting distracted.

“Urgh. Fine. But don’t get any ideas, beroya.” You lift your wrists, letting him grab your hands to help you mount Boadicea. When you swing your leg around, it settles you into the saddle, up close and personal with your captor. His hard chest presses firmly against your back, thighs around yours and crotch in serious danger of grinding up against your ass with each step the bantha makes. You think back to the fight, expecting to regret it, but instead find yourself trying awfully hard not to think about how thrilling it was to have a big, bad bounty hunter on top of you like that…

Maker, what has gotten into you?!

Well… nothing. Maybe that’s the problem… you swore yourself away from all of that after you were shown just how cruel the Galaxy can be, all too focused on the plight of survival once you became such a high value target. But now… well, it’s clearly messing with your head, because there is no way in hell you should be thinking about the hard-on of the man destined to be your end… You make a mental note to get laid once this is over… If this is over.

When Arthur clicks the reins and Boadicea the bantha starts to walk, you clamp your jaw shut and your breaths come out as sighs, in an attempt to show him just how furious you are at this turn of events. The grinding of your teeth is all part of the act, you tell yourself, and not at all a method of distracting yourself from the ripple of muscle you feel pressed flush against your back. You can feel him breathe, could swear you can feel a soft thrum of his heart as the scent of campfires and cigarettes infiltrates your senses. He’s all consuming, in the most infuriating ways, shuffling logic right out of your mind.

There’s a tension in the tiny gap between you, one that spikes every time Boadicea moves in a way that presses your ass further up against Arthur’s crotch and you’re sure his breath hitches at each point of contact.

“So-” He starts, his voice sounding almost strangled, “How’s a pretty little thing like you end up on the Outer Rim’s Most Wanted list?”

Ah, perfect. Small talk about life’s greatest traumas to distract you from the fact you now know your captor has the biggest dick in the Galaxy. Unlucky for Arthur, you’re not exactly in a sharing mood, so deflection it is.

“Sorry, beroya, the tragic backstory package is locked behind a level of friendship unattainable to the likes of you.” As an added effect, you move your wrists around so the metal of the cuffs clinks against your belt. A reminder of the situation, if you will.

“Aw, shucks, and here I was thinkin’ you liked me.” He’s all bravado, slapping his thigh comically. You don’t laugh. “Well, just so you know…” He leans closer, and his breath tickles the back of your ear sending a shiver all the way down your spine, “I don’t like you either, princess.”

Now that does draw a smirk from you. Ugly words are one thing, but biology doesn’t lie, and Arthur’s is screaming the very opposite. You adjust yourself in the saddle again, feeling that very compelling evidence to the contrary rubbing against your flesh.

“Coulda’ fooled me, cowboy.”

Being situated in front of him, you don’t see Arthur’s hand coming, don’t realise whats happening until gloved fingers wrap around your neck, thumb and forefinger pressing firmly against the pulse points on your throat. You gasp just in time to capture just enough breath for the Mandalorian to trap in your lungs. He’s so close you feel the cool metal of his helmet against your skin, the way he’s holding you forcing you to crane your neck back into him.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, pretty girl. Be careful, mesh’la. Do you really think that’s a good idea?” His warning is growled into your ear, slightly gravelly through the helmet, and you swear you’ve never felt a heat burn so fiercely everywhere. Fuck, the way he’s holding you is possessive, wanting… It ignites a very dangerous flame you’d rather not address, but the way you squirm, that little whimper that escapes your parted lips, says everything that you’d never admit aloud.

You couldn’t even if you wanted to, especially when he squeezes just that bit tighter and you feel your heart beating in your flushed cheeks. A witty retort would be just in character, but words fail you as your binded hands attempt to scratch uselessly through the leather of his thick gloves. Boadicea continues her trek, unaware that you’re all but soaking the poor girls saddle through.

“Just cause you’re pretty, doesn’t mean you can get away with just anything. Not with me, sweetheart.” You hear every rasp in his voice, the years he’s lived and fought branding it like scars. When he relinquishes the pressure, just a little, the blood rushes back into your face and you know it’s your turn to talk. He’s expecting obedience, and you’ll be damned if you comply, even if he holds your lifeforce between his thumb and forefinger.

“You… You think I’m pretty? Gee, Arthur, I don’t think you’re supposed to-” He doesn’t let you finish, the frustration at you manifesting into another soul quaking growl as he squeezes harder.

“Do you really think that behaving like that is going to get you want you want, you little brat?”

…Kriff. You’ve been labelled as difficult before, but never in a way that leaves you panting like this. Fuck, this is not how it’s supposed to go. He’s going to have you killed, and yet your panties are soaking through. You’re losing the last scraps of power you once clung to so vehemently… but Maker does it feel good…

“Listen here, Princess. I ain’t blind, alright? You’re a pretty girl. But I ain’t stupid, either. Half the time I can’t tell if I wanna kill you or fuck you, but that don’t mean shit, cause ever since I got those binders on you, you’ve been mine, alright? So shut that pretty little mouth of yours before I shut it for you. Now, are you gonna behave for me? Or am I gonna have to force you?”

The defiance that blazed in your eyes dies there, your mouth opening and closing pathetically as you fail to find something to say. All you can do is nod, the small movements he’ll allow of you, at least.

“Good girl.”

You gasp out for the dry air of the desert, and it feels like being washed under a stream after the longest drought. Your fingers rub over the reddened skin of your neck, easing the ache just slightly.

Arthur grabs the reins again, smacking them lightly to speed Boadicea up.

You say nothing, trying desperately to extinguish whatever the hell is happening between your legs.

Half the time I can’t tell if I wanna kill you or fuck you.

I can’t tell if I wanna kill you or fuck you.

…kill you or fuck you

The words swim around your mind for the next few hours of the silent, torturous ride. The desert air is hot, but you’d rather marry a wookie than ask for the water your throat is crying out for. The tension between you and Arthur hasn’t dwindled for a second, and you’re putting more blame on that than the suns beating down on you relentlessly for your flustered state. The only relief you get is from knowing its just as hard for Arthur… literally. Knowing he’s just as uncomfortable, all thanks to you, is all the consolation you need.

The skies are starting to cast an orange glow across your skin as the suns both begin to reach the horizon. You’re not too far out from Mos Espa now, but Boadicea is slowing significantly, and you can tell she’s ready for a break, so it doesn’t surprise you when Arthur swings his thigh from around you to dismount. He leaves you sitting there for a moment while he pulls off his helmet, hanging it next to the saddlebag that he pulls an oat cake out of for Boadicea .

“There, there, good girl…” he coos to her, patting her thick fur. His words of praise bring you right back to when he said that to you, and it infuriates and arouses you in equal amounts to remember the moment. You hate yourself for it. It’s a vicious cycle that leaves you dizzy.

Eventually, after petting the only woman you’re sure Arthur Morgan will ever love, he returns to you, holding out a hand to help you down,

“M’lady.” He nods sarcastically and you roll your eyes, making a point to slide off the saddle without his help, landing less than gracefully and taking a second to steady yourself. Arthur shakes his head as he watches you, before turning back to the saddle bag and pulling out a variety of things you’ll need to camp.

“We’re stopping here?” You ask, voice a little hoarse from the dehydration and protestful lack of speech. Looking around, you can’t see anything but sand. You’re less than enthusiastic about a night here, alone with him, but you’re not exactly the one making the decisions here.

“Well, unfortunately for us, your highness, the palace was booked full, and we’re in the middle of the Dune Sea.” He explains while he starts to unroll the singular bedroll. You sit down in the sand, crossing your legs beneath you with a childish pout on your lips. Oh, how you wish you could get these damn binders off. They’re so uncomfortable, and it’s been hours.

Arthur gathers enough dry wood from around the area to build a decent fire, dusting the sand away and setting them up like he’s done this a thousand times over. You know the feeling, so long ago forced out from your home and set on the run for the remainder of this lonely life. It makes you wonder if Arthur has a home of his own, a family. Watching him as intently as you are, seeing those tired eyes… somehow you know he doesn’t. Maybe once, maybe in a different life… but you know the look of loneliness well, you see her every time you come face to face with a mirror, and he embodies it. As sad as it is, it makes sense. A loving family man just wouldn’t be cut out for this kind of life.

There’s only one sun left now, the skies above a stunning gradient from orange to purple, all the way to the inky blues on the other side of the horizon. It takes Arthur no time at all to have the fire going, positioning his bedroll out next to it. He gestures for you to sit on it, but you’re stubbornly deciding the sand a few feet away would be better. Arthur snorts,

“Suit yourself.”

He returns one last time to the saddle bag, pulling out some cans, a flask, and a pouch of something wrapped in cloth. By the time he sits beside the fire, it’s roaring

“Hungry?” He asks, extending an arm to offer you the flask. A hesitation, while you decide if you’d rather kill your pride or die of hunger and thirst. It’s a tough choice, but you eventually nod and take the flask in both hands. It takes you a second to figure out how to open it with bound hands, and Arthur seems to take great joy in your attempts, until you manage to squish the flask between your knees and twist the cap off. It takes a lot of restraint to not gulp the whole thing down when that first drop hits your tongue, but both of you still have a ways to go before your destination, so you don’t. The pass back is reluctant, as is the tiny ‘thank you’ you mutter under your breath.

“Oh, look at you, princess, finding your manners.” He takes a sip of his own, starting to unwrap the little parcel to reveal some slices of meat and pulling a knife from his holster to crack the tins open. Part of you wants to prove his point, to growl at him and fight back, but you’re pretty damn hungry, so you stay quiet, silently plotting another escape.

As Arthur starts to work on the food, pouring beans into a little metal pot, he glances at you, finding amusement in your tantrum.

“You gonna come join me for some food or keep sulkin’? Either way’s fine by me, I’ll have your extras if you don’t want ‘em.” It doesn’t take very long at all for the beans to cook when he holds them over the flame, the aroma reaching your nostrils soon enough. Even for just beans, it smells good, probably cause you haven’t eaten since back in the Cantina, which feels like 3 lifetimes ago right now. Your stomach grumbles pointedly, and you’re forced to swallow your pride and gracefully stand, stomping sand everywhere as you sit right on the edge of the bedroll, as far away from Arthur (by mere inches) as possible.

He raises a taunting brow, “For someone who acts like they hate me, you sure do find ways to get real close to me.” Line thrown, hook absolutely smothered in bait.

The fury in your eyes gives the campfire a run for its credits, “Well if that isn’t the Quacta calling the Stifling slimy- you’ve been all over me since the Cantina, rubbing your cock against my ass for the last day!”

You know the victory is Arthur’s with the way he smirks at your outburst, like winding you up is his favourite pastime. He’s holding back a laugh, you can tell because his crows feet crease deeper and his lip twitches. Hook, line and sinker.

There’s a pause, surely being spent figuring out how else to annoy you, before Arthur picks up a slice of the jerky he brought and offers it to you, “...Want some meat?”

… You’re going to kill him in his sleep.

Too hungry to refuse, you snatch it off him and take an aggressive bite, the eye contact you’re shooting lasers with never breaking. Maybe it’s the hunger talking, but it tastes so good you almost moan. Almost, though your furious facade might have broken for just a moment. He’s waiting for gratitude, but you have other ideas.

“I’m not fucking you.” You announce, so out of the blue that Arthur almost chokes on his meat. Now that’d be a sight to see…

“You said you didn’t know whether to kill me or fuck me,” You explain, I’m just telling you ya’ ain’t got chance of either.”

The offended guffaw you’re after never comes, in its place a look so intense you feel flames lick at your toes and travel up between your thighs.

“Listen, mesh’la,” He growls the sarcastic term of endearment, and you vibrate, “Just cause I can’t decide if that pretty throat of yours deserves my blade or my cock doesn’t mean you’re getting either. I’ll have you, but only if you’re on your hands and knees begging me for it. I’ve got your fiery little temper worked out, and I know just what fuels it. Don’t worry, little one, you’re safe… for now.”

Dank farrick, how does he do it? Every attempt to rile him thwarted, leaving you flustered, wet, and with your jaw so slack you could catch flies. Maybe silence is the best option, to give him none of your words to twist and pull into whatever this tension between you is.

You’re not going to fuck him.

He’s literally holding you prisoner.

You’re not going to fuck him.

He’s bringing you back to them.

You’re not going to-

“Y’alright there, princess? Keep lookin’ at me like that and I’ll think you’ve changed your mind.”

“You’re infuriating.” You spit back, finishing the last of your jerky with another angry bite.

“And here was me thinkin’ we were becoming friends…”

“What?! No. Nu-uh. No way.”

“Well I ain’t leaving you to run off on me. I’m not an idiot.”

“That’s up for debate…” you mumble, just loud enough for him to decipher your words. You’re not helping your case, Arthur holding his hands out expectantly as he awaits your compliance.

“Arthur,” you start, realising you’ve never actually said his name out loud before, liking the way it feels forming on your tongue, hating that fact. “Neither of us are gonna sleep a wink if I’m strapped to you.”

He has little other choice. You know that, knowing there’s no way he’d trust you to not stab him in his sleep and run away. Smart guy, considering you’d already considered that very plan extensively. But no, he had to be difficult. He’s already stashed his knife with Boadicea, who is laid too far away to reach.

“Hindsight is clear as day, Princess. Maybe next time don’t try to run.” Pfft. Next time. There won’t be a next time, thanks to him.

Running out of patience, Arthur takes a step towards you, and you take one step backwards. He reaches for the binders and you lift them away. It’s a dance, one he quickly tires of and grips onto your forearm before you can move it.

His touch burns your skin, even through the gloves, and the fight leaves your body near instantly. His grip is firm, bruising, almost, and that devilish part of you enjoys it.

Would being chained to him for a night really be so bad…?

“Fine. Whatever. But keep your hands to yourself, mando. And you better not snore.”

“Of course, of course… wouldn’t wanna interrupt that beauty sleep, now, would I?” He sarcastically huffs, wrapping rope around the middle part of your binders that keeps your wrists together. Watching him twist and turn the rope around his huge hands does something to you, and you start to wonder if this man can do absolutely anything that won’t turn you on somehow. You’ve gotta knock this off, it’s getting dangerous, especially considering you’re about to share a bedroll tied to him.

His rope isn’t the longest, giving only a few feet of space between the two of you as he loops it through his belt and around his own arm, knotted so intricately it would be impossible to untie without waking him up. An expert in rope tying… of course he is.

Pushing thoughts of other uses for that skill of his far, far away, you watch your escape plan fall apart before your eyes, every detail somehow preemptively thwarted by Arthur’s actions as if he could read your mind. Maker, you hope he can’t, they’ve been pretty much in bed with him since he bought you that drink back in the Cantina.

Arthur sits down in the sand, the rope tugging at you to do the same. Notably, he leaves the bedroll for you, situating himself on the ground as far away as the rope will allow. And they said chivalry is dead…

“So we just… sleep? Here?” Your brows are pulled together, a sure sign of how displeased you are at this whole situation.

“Well I could read ya’ a bedtime story, but some say I don’t get the voices quite right…” By the time you go to glare at him, he’s already laying in the sand, gazing up at the sea of stars. You sigh, taking that as answer enough.

Silence, just for a moment.

“G’night, your highness…”

“...Goodnight, beroya.”

42 notes · View notes

margofiore · 9 months

Text

Te Beroya: I

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: Mandalorian!Arthur Morgan x reader crossover: Star Wars x Red Dead Redemption prompt: 24. “Your charms won’t work on me, pretty. I’m not that kind of bounty hunter.” & 45. “You’re prettier than the stars above, you know that?” (from @saradika's Star Wars prompts!) word count: 3359 words warnings: brief mentions of harassment in a flashback, implied non-con intentions but flashback ends before anything happens, somewhat suggestive fighting authors note: this is shameless self care where I have no idea if anyone will even read this, but I totally just sat and wrote the whole ass thing last night in one sitting?? anyway, this is 100% inspired by @saradika's incredible fallout/star wars AU, and it will be a mini series! I hope y'all enjoy, cause Mandalorian!Arthur has my whole ass heart. If you're here from Red Dead and have no idea whats going on, I've left a little glossary at the bottom of the fic with any terms I've used!!

i haven't tagged anyone cause i didn't know if my usual Arthur people would like a crossover or not, so please let me know if you'd like to be tagged in the next part!!

beta read by @cowboydisaster, divider by @saradika

Max Rebo is on tonight, so the Cantina is busy. More so than usual, which gladly works in your favour. It’s much easier to blend in with the rabble when there’s so many of them, diminishing the danger of getting a simple drink after a long day. You miss the time when danger wasn’t something you had to consider before something as simple as a trip to the watering hole, but that’s life now.

You’re sitting at a table for two, the second chair pulled away by a group of Klantoonians playing Dejarik and making bets amongst each other, which works fine for you. An empty chair might invite guests, which is the last thing in the Galaxy you want right now.

When you throw your drink to the back of your throat, it burns just how you like it, though the sight of a now empty glass pulls your brows together in an almost pout. You have very few credits left, and with your face coded into half the bounty pucks this side of the Outer Rim, work is pretty sparing these days.

A knight in shining beskar turns heads as he strolls into the Cantina, a Mandalorian whos helmet catches the dim spotlights scattered around the dusty bar when he appears to survey the clientele surrounding you, capturing your attention in the process. It’s a rare sight, seeing a Mandalorian walk so openly around the place, and the man instantly ignites a fascination in you. Sure, the Daimyo around here has the armour, but Boba Fett doesn’t claim to be a part of any creed, so you’re not entirely sure where he stands.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that it isn’t until the stranger is right in front of you, two glasses in hand, do you realise he was even approaching.

“Mind if I sit? I can pay rent.” He asks, his low, gruff accent hinting at origins in Mos Pelgo Freetown- as he gestures to the two glasses grasped in gloved hands. Curious eyes scan over his figure, tall and built as he is, landing on the full glass of whiskey with your name on it. A solution to your dry problem, albeit a risky one. It all depends on how much you’re willing to gamble for a drink…

“If you can find a seat, sure…” You shrug, fauxing a nonchalant air about you to keep suspicions low. You have no reason to trust this man, but showing that so openly would surely attract questions you’re not prepared to answer.

The glasses are placed down, the mystery Mandalorian taking a few steps, winding around the merry crowds to reach the nearest table. You watch on, amused, pretty sure anyone in this whole place would choose a fight over giving up their seat; the Cantina hardly has the clientele of the highest calibre. It’s an apprehension you feel, almost an excitement, at the thought of a fight breaking out and distracting everyone enough for you to pick a few pockets. And you’ve already got your drink…

You’re busy planning who you’re gonna steal from when you notice the presence this man commands. He’s tall, built up with muscles packed under his beskar. You can’t see his face, and you wonder if he’s one of those Mandalorians who never remove their helmets, your curiosity officially piqued. He approaches the group who took the seat in the first place, one of them scoffing at what you assume to be a request for the seat. You sit up, ready for the ensuing fight, but it never comes. Instead, the Mandalorian leans down, right up to the other’s face, and it’s far too loud in here to hear what he’s said, but stars would you love to know what has a Klantoonian scrambling up like that and offering out the stool.

Disappointment and a strange sense of admiration mixes in you as you lean back into your seat, your new tablemate following suit and sliding one glass across to you.

“Cheers,” You announce, lifting your glass to clink it against thin air before taking a sip, savouring the burn over your tongue a little more this time. The Mandalorian nods his head in response, and just as you think you’ve worked him out, he reaches for his helmet and pulls it off his head, placing it down on the table and taking a gulp from his own drink.

It takes you a moment to take him all in. His sandy hair, tousled from the helmet, a couple strands falling in front of his tanned skin. He has the jawline of a deity, spattered with stubble that is only broken with a small scar on his chin.

Dank Farrik.

You know his face. You know this man, you’ve seen that scar, those eyes, (though even in the dark cantina you can see an incredible ocean hue that no hologram nor poster could never hope to capture) before, hanging on the walls of the underground bars you used to frequent before every crime family on the planet were after your head.

Arthur Morgan, bounty hunter.

It’s too late to flee, and the disruption you’d cause by bolting would only draw more attention to you, so your only option appears to be complacency, for now. Act the fool, pretend you don’t know exactly who he is and why he’s here, and let whatever little plan he has in store for you play out until you can excuse yourself and get the hell out of here.

You school your expression to as much indifference as you can, though the rather long sip of your drink may have given you away. Arthur watches you intently, and if you didn’t know better you’d think he was buying you a drink to flirt with you. But you do know better, unfortunately.

“You know,” he starts, drawing out the statement and retaining your attention with a long sip of his own, “You’re prettier than the stars above.”

Whiskey shoots down your throat and back up again with your little splutter, not expecting this to be his plan. You just about manage to suppress the scoff rising up like bile, concealing it in a cough. Your fight or flight is in hyperdrive, and the reverend Arthur Morgan laying on the fake charm in order to cash in on the price on your head really isn’t helping. He’s good, though, you had to give him that. It’s a mighty fine pickup line coming from a mighty fine looking man, it’s just a shame he’s trying to capture you.

“Afraid your charms won’t work on me, pretty boy. I’m not that kinda girl.”

“Pretty boy, really?” He doesn’t seem mad, more amused, a raised brow meeting with a little chuckle and a head shake as he throws the last of his drink back down.

It’s now or never.

You throw the last of your own drink back, part for the plan, part for the Dutch courage needed to actually pull the plan off.

“Same again?” You ask, your stool squeaking awkwardly against the stone floor when your straightening legs push it into the wall, “I think this rounds on me.”

It’s a near perfect act of indifference, with only a single, traitorous voice break right at the end. You hope he doesn’t notice, but it’s wishful thinking. Arthur stands too, echoing your stools creak, his hand reaching on instinct to the holster hanging by his hip.

Dank farrik dank farrik dank farrik!!

“Don’t you worry about that, pretty girl.” The way he throws your pet name back at you… he knows you know, and you have seconds to act.

Eyes wide, like a bantha in headlights, you take your chances in throwing the last of your drink back, before throwing the glass over to the table of gamers and gamblers. It hits one of them on the back of the head, and everybody turns to him, the music cutting off abruptly for a few seconds of silence before the chaos erupts.

You’re the first to move, breaking the almost comical freeze frame to put one boot on the table and push it into Arthur. He lunges for you, missing by inches, so close you feel the air rush past your skin where he nearly grazes you. The table hits him in the stomach, and he’s forced to bend over it, giving you the perfect opportunity to risk everything and grab the blaster jutting out. You shoot twice, high into the ceiling, which really kicks things off. The cantina soon descends into riot status, with punches thrown, drinks flying and the like. The distraction you’ve been after ever since he walked in here with his uneasy air and the hairs on the back of your neck first began to stand on edge.

The path out is far from easy, and you’re pretty sure you stood on more than a few limbs, but when the dry heat of a Tatooine night hits you, you’ve never been so grateful. You don’t look back once, not knowing if he’s following you or even if he saw where you’re going, you just run until your lungs burn and your muscles scream at you and then you run some more. There’s a spot you know, an abandoned farm house just outside the city that’s covered in sand and looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. You hid out there once before, the last time a bounty hunter tried their luck with you, successfully prolonging this never ending hunt where you’re the prey every damn time.

It’s a long night, one where you don’t sleep a wink nor dare to light a fire. It doesn’t seem like Arthur followed you, but it was a few hours after reaching the farmhouse did you release the grip of your stolen blaster enough for it to no longer press each metal marking into the skin of your palm. You keep your back pressed firmly against the wall of one of the sand-filled alcoves, keeping hidden from sight until the suns are both well above the horizon. The mid-morning heat is a grateful relief from the biting cold; even the desert cools in the dead of night.

You spot the bantha first, letting it lure you into a false sense of security before it gets close enough for you to make out the details of its silhouette, one detail in particular being the goddamn bounty hunter sitting atop it.

The fact that he’s here at all means he knows he’ll find you here, but logic doesn’t get in the way of you scuttling back into the house, climbing to what used to be the second floor and pulling the blaster back out to press against your chest.

Not exactly the faster creatures in the Outer Rim, it takes the bantha and its rider a few torturous minutes to reach you, but when they do arrive, Arthur dismounts casually, with no indication that he intends to send you back to your maker. Your breath hitches as he walks down the little incline of sand into the ruins of the house.

He turns on his heel, and you notice the spurs on his boots make a little circle in the sand around his feet.

“I know you’re here, mesh’la,” he taunts, bringing out a Mando’a translation of the newly formed inside joke you seem to share now, “Ain’t no point hiding.”

He’s right, you know he is. There is no way out, no possibility you’re going to escape him, and even if you did, there’s no cover out here. He’ll be able to sit back and watch wherever you run, just waiting to follow. You could shoot him, but the weight of the blood you’ve already spilled is already becoming too much. Could you really carry more?

Tears threaten to prick at your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall, refuse to let the shaking of your hands carry on for any longer than your cover does. He won’t see the cracks in your facade, that you’ll make sure of.

“You’re prettier than the stars above, you know that?”

It will be a cold day on Mustafar when the great Arthur Morgan bows to flattery, but that doesn’t stop you from poking whatever fun you can reach.

Your voice echoing around the remains of the farmhouse alerts Arthur of your general location, so he turns to it, giving you a full view of the amused grin on his face.

“Your charms won’t work on me, pretty girl. I ain’t that kind of bounty hunter.”

You laugh. A genuine, true laugh, despite yourself. Despite everything.

“Come on out now, no-one needs to get hurt…” He pleads, wandering eyes indicating he’s still not 100% sure where you are.

“Except me, when you hand my ass in for a few credits.” You point out, noticing that your back and forth seems to have quelled the tremors in your hands. Let’s not ponder that right now…

Arthur looks taken aback, like he genuinely doesn’t know what to say to that. Good. Let him stutter to death for all you care.

“Well, maybe you shoulda’ thought of that before you started sloggin’ off some mighty powerful people, sweetheart…”

His comment seems to spark, igniting a firework of anger deep within you. It explodes loudly, albeit quickly, when you aim Arthur’s own blaster to beside his feet, firing a warning shot that smokes in the sand. You wouldn’t be surprised to see one of his boots singed with how close you were, but when he jumps back, pulling out another identical blaster from a second holster and aiming it right at your alcove, you curse inwardly. How did you not notice that?

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, bounty hunter.” You seethe, that anger burning hot as he claims to understand your situation.

“Well why don’t you come out here and we can talk about it?”

That earns a scoff, which Arthur responds to with a long sigh.

“Look… way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You can come out, do this the easy way, and I can bring you in nice and warm, get my full fee, and you live to see another day. Or-”

“Yeah, I get it, beroya,” You spit the Mando’a name out like a curse, “Or you can kill me right now and have a real lonely drive back to wherever the hell it is they want my corpse.”

You hate that he’s right, hate that you’re cornered, hate that it’s over, ignoring the small part of you that sighs relief at the prospect of no longer having to live life with one eye on your back.

There’s one last, long, deep breath, the exhale feeling like letting go of something, though you’re not sure if it’s freedom or the captivity this hunt has kept you in, and then you’re jumping from the second floor, landing in the sand with a thud. You’re still clutching the gun, but so is Arthur, and you’re not sure you’d fare well in a duel against an actual sharpshooter, so you toss it over to him, sand flying off at him in a final, petty move.

Arthur picks it up, holstering a pistol at each hip as he slowly approaches, hands raised like a keeper trying to tame a wild rancor. You can’t decide if you like that allegory on not, rancors can get pretty vicious…

The handcuffs you also didn’t notice last night hang from the bounty hunter’s belt. You’re still while he corners you, appearing willing when he plucks the binders from his belt. It isn’t until you feel gloved hands against your skin do the prickles on the back of your neck start burning and the urge to flee rises up again like bile.

Phantom hands, Trandoshan ones, appear all over your body as you’re flung out of reality from a single touch.

“Aren’t you a gem?” his whisper just about reaches your ear, warm breath bubbling at the skin of your neck like acid. He runs a claw across your jaw, resting it below your chin so you can’t look away.

“Please don’t touch me.” You demand, though your voice is weak. Scared. You know what happens to girls who don’t do what they’re told around here.

That displeasure spreading across his face twists and contorts it when he registers your disobedience. Notably, his claws remain on you, and when you try to step backwards, he crowds you, following until your back hits the cold stone wall. Claustrophobia sets in, your breath hitching when you feel his chest press against yours.

“Hm… I think I will, girl. Nobody says no to me, you’ll do well to remember that.”

The stench of whatever cologne rich Trandoshan boys wear lingers in your nostrils like it so often does, but your mind catches up with where you really are faster than your body does. It’s instinct, when you bring your knee up to hit Arthur hard in the gut and completely wind him. He lets out a groan, doubling over and dropping the binders in the process, which you kick across the sand.

You use his distraction to push him over onto his back, but he grabs the lapels of your jacket and drags you down with him so you’re straddling him, crotch to crotch as you attempt to pin him down into the sand. Your thighs squeeze together in an attempt to constrict his wriggling, but he’s pretty strong. You’re not thinking straight when you pull your fist back, with every intention of striking Arthur in the face, but the shock of his catching your fist in his much bigger hands seems to bring you back to reality and you realise what you’re doing.

Frozen, for only a second, but it’s enough window to give Arthur chance to overpower you, twisting your bodies together until you’re below him instead and he can pin down each arm by the wrist. Your thighs remain wrapped around him, and with Arthur towering over you, it has suddenly become an awfully intimate position shared between the two of you. His face is inches from yours, his hot, panting breaths mixing with yours. Both of your chests rise and fall, just barely touching as you glare into eachothers eyes.

“The hell was that?!” He demands, and you’re trying your absolute hardest to ignore the prodding you feel against your thigh. Maker help you…

He doesn’t deserve a response from you, only the ceasing of your strained muscles trying to escape his iron grip as a silent admit to defeat. With the way you fell, your satchel is digging awkwardly into your lower back, so you raise your hips slightly to ease the ache. An unexpected effect of that is your pelvis grinding oh-so gently against Arthur’s, which seems to bring a surge of energy to that bulge pressing against you. Your eyes widen, as do Arthur’s, and there’s one single moment shared between the two of you before he quickly scrambles off you, not releasing his bruising grip on your wrists.

When he stands, he doesn’t give you the chance to before he’s walking to the direction you kicked his cuffs. It drags you along the coarse sand, your wrist screaming from the strain of carrying your weight.

“Ow- you’re gonna break my wrist, you fucking nerf herder!” You hiss at him, kicking your legs in protest as sand flies about the place and you’re dragged to the cuffs.

“Shoulda’ thought about that before ya tried to break my goddamn nose, mesh’la.” The term of endearment is anything but sincere, coupled with rough movements as he cuffs you that hint that he may be pretty pissed about the sudden unexpected fight. The binders are a little too tight to ever be comfortable, but you’re pretty sure that’s intentional. A slice of revenge for trying to run again.

“These are too tight.” You complain, lifting your wrists up to his standing form.

“Well, you better get used to it. We’ve got a long ride to Mos Espa, Princess.”

beroya - bounty hunter dank farrik - curse word mesh'la - beautiful trandoshan - an alien species, one of the crime families of tatooine

117 notes · View notes

margofiore · 9 months

Text

A Job Well Done

pairing: Arthur Morgan x reader (f) word count: 4944 words warnings: 18+ minors dni, sexually explicit, oral (f giving), rough oral, a little choking, a touch of voyeurism, explicit language, it's pretty much a blowjob fic authors note: idk what to say... this started as a little drabble because me and my fiancé love having a little smoke together at night and.... well, here we are I guess?? i hope you enjoy you lovely lot, and if you've asked to be tagged and you're not please let me know!! I have a new system for keeping track of my taglist and I may have lost some requests in the transfer

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola@the-marsh-harrier @wildfloweroutlaw @photo1030 @luvliewriting@pine4pple-b0i *if i've missed you please let me know!!!*

You pull Arthur’s jacket tighter around your shoulders, settling into the old wooden chair while it creaks beneath you. Thanks to being in the middle of the Lemoyne swamps, it isn’t too cold despite the moon hanging so high in the sky above you, the jacket is more for comfort. From where you sit, you can see near the whole camp, watching lanterns flicker off incrementally as each member of your makeshift family retires for the night. A few of the boys stay up, drinking by the fire, their voices muffled and distant in the thick air.

It’s been a week to the day since you last saw Arthur, before he left to track a rather sizable bounty down and attempt to cushion out the camp funds, and God do you miss him. The days feel so much longer, nights so lonely you’ve considered saddling up and finding the bastard yourself just to bring him home sooner. Comfort can be found, though, in the ways Arthur’s presence has bled so deeply into your life that his physical being doesn’t even need to be here.

His smell lingers on the jacket he left (the one he wore every day before he had to leave just so you could wear it when you missed him), that perfect mix of tobacco and whiskey and something so ineffably Arthur that you soak up every time you wrap it around your frame.

He’s there in the routines you've built your lives around, intertwined as they are, the ones you can’t shake even if he’s not beside you. The cup of coffee in a morning, his so much better tasting than yours but you try anyway. The first morning after he left, you made two, ending up giving the extra to a very grateful Abigail to save face.

There’s a nightly routine, too. The one where you get ready for bed, then climb through the window to meet him on your balcony. He’s always there waiting with a cigarette hanging from his lips, patting his lap ready for you to crawl on. He’ll drag a match across his boot, (or sometimes the bottom of yours, if you’re still wearing them) lighting up the smoke before handing it to you. You’ll pass it between each other, catching up on your days, limbs entangled just how they should be as you watch Shady Belle fall asleep around you.

Without him, those routines bring you comfort, grasping onto the remnants of your cowboy until his safe return. That’s why you’re sitting in this spot, pulling a cigar out of the little tin stash box Arthur left behind. Normally it’s just a cigarette, you could never survive a cigar a night and have the throat to tell the tale, but there’s something inexplicably Arthur about this brand of smokes, something you’re seeking tonight.

You pluck a match from the tin, striking it against the table beside you, never having gotten the knack of igniting the thing on your boot as effortlessly as Arthur does, and light the cigar between your lips. The all-familiar woody essence dances across your tongue, your tired muscles relaxing from the first few tokes.

It’s just you, the moon and the crickets as you sit on the balcony, Arthur’s smoke between your lips. You wonder what he’s doing. He should be sleeping, but knowing him he’s probably up planning, or doing exactly what you are right now. You pray he’s safe, hasn’t been gotten by the law or worse, gotten himself killed. You can’t let yourself even think about that, the very idea bringing a tremble to your limbs. To combat the sudden spike in anxiety, the next time you bring the cigar to your lips you drag in just that bit more smoke, letting it soak down your spine. Not nearly as experienced in smoking as Arthur, you cough a little, but you recover much quicker than you used to.

Memories of that first time, of Arthur offering you the little brown stick and you nervously nodding, bring a little smile to your face. Oh, how you spluttered, Arthur giving you his drink on instinct, only realising that the whiskey burn would do the opposite of help once it was too late. You’d have been in your right mind to be embarrassed as hell, but by the way he chuckled as he rubbed circles around your back told you that he found it nothing but adorable.

You sit there for a few minutes, basking in the precious peace so seldom found nowadays and taking a drag every now and then, the smoke riding a sigh from your lips. Your eyes slip closed, trying to shut off as many senses as you can to really connect with that smell and taste, imagining him emerging from your bedroom window to be here with you.

He’s much less graceful than you are, often catching some part of his person on the windowsill when he climbs out onto the balcony. So many nights spent patching up little holes in his pant legs, right where that out sticking nail used to be in the frame before he ‘bested it in combat’ (i.e. pulled it out with a hunting knife and threw it ceremoniously in the lake).

Manifestation is a powerful tool, you’ve always believed that, but you still nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a large hand grasp your shoulder just as you imagined, Arthur’s gruff, hushed whisper tickling the words “hey, sweetheart” into the skin of your neck. It takes you a second to catch your breath, heart racing from the shock before everything registers and reality sets in.

“Arthur?”

He’s here.

“C’mere, darlin’.”

You fly out of your seat, the rickety old thing nearly splintering under the force, launching yourself into his open arms to burrow yourself into him. Every part of him consumes your senses and you drink it all in like an addict. The smell, the real thing, much more of that Arthur essence than the whiskey or cigars, probably because he forewent breaks in his journey for those little pleasures to get back to you sooner.

He seems to be taking you in as much as you are him, inhaling long through his nose and sighing it out contentedly, feeling whole again after so long without you in his arms.

“I missed ya’, beautiful.” He says softly into your hair, holding you tight against him, his knuckles brushing up and down the small of your back through layers of clothes you’ve stolen from him.

“I missed you so much…” You mumble into his shirt, hardly able to breathe through the wall of hard chest muscle you’re pressed against, caring even less.

It’s only then do you remember the cigar, forgotten and abandoned, smoking away on the table propped up on a jar lid turned makeshift ashtray. Most of the boys don’t bother with one, and neither did Arthur, until a fateful night a few months before you started dating when you first handed him the jar and told him you read something about birds and rabbits eating the butts of cigarettes. He kept the little piece of junk right next to his bedside, waiting for you to find it after that first night together.

Arthur spots your momentary pull of attention, pulling his chest away to raise a brow down at you with a little chuckle rumbling his chest.

“Having a fancy smoke of a night, are we?”

A cheeky little smirk- Arthur’s favourite, actually- tugs at the corner of your lips, waiting patiently for him to kiss it away.

“The smell reminds me of you…” you play coy, earring yourself that kiss when Arthur lifts you up to his height, kissing you softly, letting his world and yours fall back into place together.

“Well I’m here now, angel. Wanna sit? Could do with a nice cigar with my girl to celebrate a job well done.”

You’re eager to nod, heart fluttering at the prospect of getting to sit with him and hear all about his trip. He untangles from you to sit down first, patting his lap for you to crawl into. You fit perfectly together (you should do, you were made for eachother), head resting on his shoulder, legs splayed over his thighs with your arm draped over his shoulder. The cigar has gone out, so Arthur strikes a match so expertly on his spurs before shaking it out and placing his hand on the small of your back for support. You lean into him, watching him take puffs of the cigar and feeling the tiniest bit of tension leave his joints. He looks so natural with a smoke between his teeth, commanding an air of power with each movement he makes. Smoking doesn’t suit just everyone, you think, but God, does it suit him.

“We’re celebrating? You got the bastard, then?”

“Sure did,” he says, smoke spilling from his lips with each syllable. Arthur looks you over again, drinking in the dearly missed view, before kissing you on the forehead and flipping the cigar between his fingers to offer it up, “Eventually found him up in Fort Brennand, but he weren’t alone. Nearly lost a damn eye, but luckily only Woffard had to be brought in alive, so I dropped the other bastards and ran.”

You hang on his every word, your hero. You know he’s downplaying the fight, the danger of it all, but he does it so that you don’t worry every time he’s gone. It never works, and you always do, but you love him for trying.

“Oh, Arthur, I’m so glad you’re alright…” You coo, pressing a hand to his cheek, feeling the weeks worth of stubble scratching against your palm. He nuzzles into your touch, not unlike a cat, and your find yourself keeping your hand there to mindlessly play with his hair, tipping his hat off to put on your own head. He chuckles, reaching to adjust it on you.

“Course I am, couldn’t leave you here all alone with this buncha’ fools, could I? Besides, someones gotta bring home the bacon around here, and you know Marston’s too trigger happy to bring a bounty in alive.”

“So you got the full price?” Your eyes gleam, the proudest smile on your features as Arthur nods and shifts both your weights for a moment to pull out a stack of bills and smack them on the table dramatically.

“You’re damn straight I did, baby.”

Of course he did. Arthur never fails, and God knows how much the camp needs this right now, freedoms diminishing by the day as Dutch makes more enemies and plans jobs that just seem to keep going wrong. But you don’t want to think about that right now. Right now, there is only you and Arthur, and the promise of a whole night spent with him uninterrupted. You hand him the cigar back, along with a stolen kiss, and he takes another mesmerising drag. The way he holds it, every so often tipping the ash into the first gift you ever gave him, it does things to you that you just can’t explain. It’s just a cigar, and yet you’re pressing your thighs together tight to futilely subdue the tightness coiling between them.

“I’m so proud of you… I always am.” Unkempt locks of hair are twisted between your fingers, your face so close to Arthur’s you can pepper his cheek, temple and lips, whenever not occupied, with little kisses, Arthur’s hat sometimes tipping up against his forehead on your head. The two of you are always like this after a few days apart, unable to get enough of each other or keep your hands off one another. You shift your weight to access him better, catching his bottom lip between your teeth to press a long, tender kiss there. He hums under you, hand splaying under your jacket to grasp at your shirt. It’s seconds before you feel it, that hardening that nudges up against your thigh, prodding and reminding you just how much Arthur has missed you.

You pull away from the kiss, just enough to raise a teasing brow at how sensitive your cowboy is to your touch. He shrugs, unashamed, with that cheeky grin and those glistening eyes directed right at you.

“What? I missed ya…” His words are accompanied with a pinch of your ass, which makes you writhe on top of his stiffness, the friction dragging a low growl from deep within his chest.

“I can see that, cowboy… I missed you too. I missed you more.” You emphasise, nipping at his lip again and splaying your fingers across his chest. He rises to your touch, and you feel him stiffen more so under you. It takes a second of manoeuvring, but you’re soon straddling him, hovering above him like the angel he sees you to be. From this angle, with the moon behind you, you’re glowing.

“You absolutely did not, you little siren…” He growls again, pulling at the flesh of your ass so that you’re grinding against him, the friction of denim against denim igniting you both and burning so wonderfully.

“Oh, yeah? I can prove it.” There’s a little cock of your head, a raise of one teasing brow as you start to slide off him. He looks confused, disappointed, even, until your knees rest on the planks of wood on the balcony floor and he instinctively spreads his legs to give you the space between them. Your fingers splay across his thick thighs, and they tense under your touch, as does Arthur’s jaw. He’s starved after a week without you, clearly trying to reign in a control he’s struggling to possess. There’s no wonder, having his girl knelt before him like this.

“You wanna take this to the bedroom?” He growls out, abandoning the still smoking cigar in the jar lid. You look up at him, peeking out from under the rim of his hat.

“No.” You reach for the cigar, taking a few drags yourself before flipping it in your fingers just like he did and placing it between his teeth, “Finish your smoke.”

A distant laugh captures Arthur’s attention for a second, reminding you both just how close you are to the other gang members. You’re somewhat hidden by the railing, but if they looked in your direction, Arthur is fully visible from the chest up. A simple bob of your head- and you’re planning on plenty- would bring you into view.

The look Arthur gives you when he quickly diverts his attention back from Marston and the others is downright feral, especially when your hands reach for his belt buckle. Nimble fingers make quick word of the obstruction, and you’re soon pulling Arthur’s thick, long length out from his jeans. He groans at your very touch, involuntarily bucking his hips up into your hand.

You laugh, the sound a tempting little giggle as you tell him “Patience, cowboy…”

He almost snarls in response, clearly having been goddamn patient enough over the last week where all he could do is fuck himself with your name on his lips and the thought of you knelt just like this between his legs at the forefront of his mind, always.

Just as you lean in, when your soft lips trace over his rosy, swollen head, he pulls you back by plucking his hat from atop your head and throwing it to the side. He rests the cigar between the fingers of his free hand to free his mouth to speak to you.

“Need to see you while I fuck that pretty little moutha’ yours, angel…”

His words soak through you (and soak you through), and you just can’t wait a second longer, needy to have his cock deep down your throat, desperate for the burning of your lungs and the stinging in your eyes when he loses that control he so often vehemently clings to.

Unable to wait a second longer, you run your tongue from base to tip, feeling every vein pulsing under your muscle and eliciting a deep groan from Arthur. When you finally take him in your mouth, his hand reaches to cup your cheek, following you down as you take as much of him as you can.

“Fuck.” He groans, fingers reaching to tangle in your hair, scratching at your scalp. He’s probably louder than he should be, your eyes flickering to the general direction of the others as a warning, but they soon snap back to your cowboy, an intense eye contact burning at your skin as the head of his cock bumps the back of your throat. Arthur never takes his eyes off you, guiding you up and down his length and bringing the smoke to his lips. The tip of the cigar flares a deep, fiery orange, and smoke billows from his mouth with each laboured breath you coax from him. The way he’s sitting, fingers of one hand pulling at your hair, controlling your movements, and the other limply holding the smoke, he exudes a power many seek to master but never quite get. It makes your heart swell and your cunt throb for him, knowing on your knees before him is the only place you ever want to be, knowing only you inhabit it.

You can taste Arthur, his salty essence leaking from the pure ecstasy you’re providing and spit pools in your throat, mixing with it and dribbling down your chin. Arthur catches it with his thumb, guiding you off his cock to push the digit into your mouth and let you suckle from it. You do, hungrily, adjusting on your knees to better take Arthur deep down your throat and-

“Arthur! That you?”

Marston.

For eyes widen at each other, Arthur instinctively pushing you a little lower by your shoulder to keep you out of sight. John hasn’t seen you, and you’d like to keep it that way, being in the incriminating position you are between Arthur’s legs.

You spot the irritated sigh, the twitch of Arthur’s jaw as he plasters a fake friendliness onto his features and peers over the balcony to see his brother standing on the clearing below.

“Sure is. Whatchu’ want?”

Straight to the point.

“We didn’t hear you get back. How long’ve you been here?”

All that tension you’ve worked so hard to dissipate comes back to Arthur’s form with a crashing force. You can almost hear his plea for just one second a’ goddamn peace, merely by the way he sighs before answering.

“Not long, thought I’d try and sneak past you fools and get some shut eye.”

Subtle, cowboy.

Ever oblivious, or simply not caring, John continues, “How’d it go, then? You got the bastard?”

He has you pressed against his thigh to hide you from sight, cock standing to attention right beside your face. It’s too tempting, especially with a none the wiser Marston stood right below. When your tongue darts out, hovering above Arthur’s twitching, aching cock, his eyes flick down to you, warning residing deep in his eyes. You take it as less of a warning, more a challenge.

You wouldn’t.

Oh, but I would.

And you do. You lift up, just enough to fit the head of his throbbing cock past your lips and slide the whole length in. It bumps the back of your throat, but upon hearing Arthur’s strangled, poorly hidden groan, you can’t seem to stop yourself.

“Y-uh… Yeah, I got ‘em…”

It’s impressive, how he can just about hold a conversation despite his cock being so far down your throat his balls rest on your chin.

You can’t see John, but you can only imagine how his head must tilt and his brows must pull together at the strange response from Arthur.

“You alright, brother?”

He won’t be.

You blink up at Arthur, feigning an innocent, near angelic expression as you inhale through your nose and push him even further into you. You hum, low and quiet, letting the vibrations pass through him. Arthur whimpers, instantly knocking any and all sounds you’ve ever heard from top spot and replacing them as your favourite in the whole world.

“I-I’m fine. Just tired.” He tries to hint again, to no avail. His fingers are digging into your shoulder with a bruising force, that control slipping bit by bit with every passing second, every little movement. Tears prick at your eyes, that burning in your lungs you’ve been reaching for finally igniting. You’re stuffed with him, feeling so full that it’s hard to breathe. When you go to release him, to be able to gasp for precious air, you realise you can’t, Arthur’s huge hand holding you right in place with his palm flush against the back of your neck. Revenge.

“Where’s the Mrs?”

A raise of a brow. You’re not married, but everything is so naturally right between you and Arthur that the gang just seem to have defaulted to that. It makes you beam, wanting nothing more than to be this man’s wife, the kind of wife that makes him cum down your throat while he has a menial conversation.

“S-She’s- fuck…” When he grips harder at you, you gag around his length, tears now streaming down your cheeks and mixing with your spittle and the little bits of precum that leak out from Arthur. “She’s in bed. I-I better go check on her, a-actually.” He whimpers again, fingers now gripping into your hair to keep you in place. You’re not sure how much longer you can last like this, struggling to breathe, overflowing and, God, so wet for him.

John sounds unconvinced. You’d giggle, if you could.

“Alright… Well, g’night, brother.”

Arthur barely manages a grunt, and you can feel his thighs tensing and twitching from the sheer effort of not bucking his hips up into you and giving the pair of you away. He stills, most likely waiting for Marston to fuck off already, before he rips you away from him and pulls you to your feet, gripping your aching jaw with force enough force to keep it open.

“You goddamn siren.” He isn’t mad. He’s trying to be, but you know Arthur far too well, and he’s burning with a fire far hotter than mere anger. Need.

The mischievous glint in your eye is all you can offer for response, what with his iron grip on your face, but you do manage to slip your tongue out and lick the pad of his thumb, tasting the mixture of fluids still lingering.

It’s all getting too much, knowing what you just did and who you did it around, hearing Arthur unable to string a sentence together because of you. You don’t think you’ve ever been so turned on in your life, so desperate for a release that you’re pathetically writhing in Arthur’s hold. He notices, forced anger on his features replaced with a cockiness that only comes from knowing he’s regaining the power in the situation.

Your cheeks tingle when he releases you, sitting back in the seat and leaning back, one elbow resting on the arm of the old wooden chair and picking the cigar back up. God, you could ride him in that chair till morning, if you thought the wood wouldn’t splinter under the force.

“You gonna finish what you started, my little siren?” He asks, taking an especially long toke from the smoke while he waits for you to drop to your knees before him. Your cunt throbs, screaming out for his attention, but it would seem your antics have earned you punishment.

Your knees hit the wood with a force, though an involuntary whimper escapes you, hips grinding pathetically against nothing. Arthur notices, smirking like a goddamn cheshire cat at his little wanton whore.

“Patience, angel.” Your own words echo back to you like a slap in the face. You definitely deserve this.

The grip you had on the power in this game you’re playing with Arthur officially disappears when his hand snakes around the back of your neck, grasping at your hair and winding it around his wrist like a leash. You have to tilt your head so the tugging at your scalp is a mere burn rather than a sharp pain, but that’s just where he wants you.

“Now, little siren, I’m gonna teach ya’ some manners, and you’re gonna finish what you started, alright? And if you’re a good girl, maybe I’ll think about getting that sweet little cunt of yours off…”

It’s all it takes, the promise of Arthur’s fingers deep inside you while he sucks on your clit just how you like it, lapping up your juices like a man starved, and the defiance in your eyes dissipates. Arthur bends you to his whim, messy, sloppy putty in his hands as he drags you onto his weeping cock. You’re all but drooling for him, leaking out of the corners of your mouth when he slips into you. Your scalp tingles with the pull, especially when Arthur involuntarily tightens his grip with a hiss of his breath. His tip bumps the back of your throat, but he doesn’t stop even when you’ve fit all of him in that you can.

“Fuck, good girl, just like that baby girl…” he groans, and when you open your eyes to look up to him, he is watching you with a gaze so intense you feel like it could tear you apart. The tension burns between you, coiling so tight the chirp of a nearby cricket could snap it.

There’s an unspoken question in your eyes when you start to nearly choke on his length of when you’ll be released, but his eyes darken, “Come on, baby, you can take more, can’t you?”

He seems to register your fear, but it phases him little. It seems more a challenge, really, coaxing him into rocking his hips into you, pushing you even further onto his cock until you feel it start to breach past your throat in a way you didn’t even know possible. You splutter, wriggling and writhing as you try your hardest to breathe through your nose.

“Shh… good girl,” he coos, a ravenous look taking over your usually so lovable cowboy. You’ve pushed him, and God do you live for it. “Not much further… wanna see you take all of my cock, alright? You gonna do that for me, angel?”

You can’t nod, but it isn’t much of a question, not much choice available with your limited movements and the way Arthur has completely commandeered your body. You’re irrevocably his, body and soul.

It doesn’t feel possible to fit more of him in, your throat burning for relief that won’t come until Arthur is satisfied, but when he bucks his hips into you, you feel his base press against your nose. He groans hard, the noise initially from the sensation of having your throat wrapped around his cock, but when he sees the sight of you, tear stained and gagging on him, the moan is pulled out into a noise of pure ecstasy.

“Good girl… my good fuckin’ girl.”

His thumb rubs lovingly over your wet cheek, a sensation you cling to as the corners of your vision get fuzzy. Fuck, you’re not sure how much longer you can hold out, but you’re so desperate to feel Arthur’s spend trickling down your throat, feel him lose control and moan just for you that you’d honestly be willing to die for it.

Your expression, complete with lust-fogged, watery eyes, and beautifully flushed skin, teases the last of Arthur’s restraint like a razor thin blade against that final thread. When it finally snaps, you’re allowed one gasp for air, before he’s thrusting back into you hard. You can feel him stiffen, even more so than before, as his hips splutter into your mouth and he starts to tumble over the precipice into that realm of pleasure that only the two of you share.

“F-Fuck, sweetheart, I’m gonna-” But he interrupts himself with a visceral, primal groan, the vibration of it shattering the both of you. You take advantage of his practically inebriated state to regain some of your own anatomy, managing to swirl your tongue around his pulsing head inside your mouth. The hot, salty spend blooms across your tongue at that, Arthur guiding you by the cheek to bob up and down on his cock while he paints your throat white. His moans are a melody you’ll never tire of, animalistic and vulnerable all the same.

It feels like it never stops, Arthur’s spend filling your mouth up and leaking out from the corners of your lip. You can hardly stay still, writhing your needy cunt against your own heel, desperate for a reward you’re earning when you look him in the eye and swallow it all down. Pride blooms across Arthur’s features, saturated with a love that warms you from the inside out. His thumb caresses your face softly, wiping the tear tracks as you finally release his cock from your mouth and he guides you to your feet, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then nose, then lips.

“My good girl…” He coos, barely above a whisper as you breathe each other in, both as breathless as the other. Your throat aches, your jaw burning, but you’d do it a thousand times over to experience what you just did all over again.

“Now…” He splits the sentence with another kiss, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “Get on inside, sweetheart, I think you’ve earned yourself a reward.”

1K notes · View notes

margofiore · 10 months

Text

The Greatest Gift III: She Sleeps

SERIES MASTERPOST

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader word count: 1017 words warnings: teeth-rotting fluff, tbh this made me cry a/n: just a cute lil drabble for my favourite family in the world

taglist:@cowboydisaster@inkandbloodbound@beea-nie@cloudynoiire@punctillous@missvanderlinde@twola@pine4pple-b0i@alice-vanderlinde@photo1030

The newly appointed Uncle Dutch stays for a little while, admiring his new goddaughter until he and Arthur notice you struggling to stay awake. You’ve drifted off completely by the time Dutch hands Jade back to her father and congratulates the pair of you once more, returning to his tent to gush over the new addition to the gang.

Sleep overtakes you completely and utterly, your body so exhausted from the last nine months you could probably sleep through a riot. That much is proven about an hour later, when Jade stirs in her cot and begins to cry, the very first time in a long, long period of sleepless nights for the three of you. Her little screams pierce the formerly tranquil air, the trauma of waking up in the real world seemingly alone not really agreeing with her.

You’re normally not such a heavy sleeper, where the snap of a nearby twig or Uncle’s less than melodic singing, no matter how far away, is enough to wake you. But exhaustion doesn’t begin to cover how your body aches right now, how it longs for rest and clings onto it with a mighty grip when you finally get it. You don’t even stir.

Arthur, on the other hand, is woken instantly, paternal instincts already setting in ferociously. He looks down to you, smiling to himself when he sees you’re sound asleep, just about managing to untangle his limbs from yours without waking you and pressing a kiss to the top of your hair. When he gets off your shared cot, he makes sure to wrap the blanket back around you.

“Hey, little lady…” he whispers, almost apprehensively as he walks towards his daughter, hands raised in the air as if he’s approaching a spooked horse. Force of habit. “It’s all right, baby girl… Daddy’s here.”

To Arthur, Jade is made of glass, and he lifts her into his arms as such. His precious, fragile little masterpiece, who makes him feel bigger and more brutish than he ever has before. He sits in the chair at the foot of your cot, Jade settling in his strong arms like she was made for them. She was, Arthur thinks, he just never realised until this moment. That’s all it takes for Jade to stop crying: her daddy, who would lasso the moon for her if it meant she could see the stars a little brighter.

Even in the dark of your tent, Arthur can see her eyes glistening up at him, and can still make out her tiny features. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, save for you, of course.

He thinks of Isaac for a moment, and how he held him like this precious few times, vowing that his memory will live on in the way that he will protect Jade from the evils of the world no matter what stands in his way. He will do for Jade what he failed to do for his son, in his honour.

Breaking the silence settling around your little family, you moan softly in your sleep, turning onto your side. It draws Arthur’s attention to you again- not that it would ever be too far away- and he smiles to himself, entranced by how peaceful you look, how beautiful you are.

Jade reaches up to Arthur’s chin, pressing tiny fingers against his stubble and capturing his attention once more. The quietest of chuckles escapes his chest, a smile so pure stretching his lips.

“Ain’t she beautiful, baby girl? I’m so damn proud of her…” Arthur physically winces when he realises he just cursed to a 4 hour old baby, but will later realise he should be the last of his own troubles, what with her having a dozen outlaws for aunts and uncles. “Sorry…” he hums, glancing between his wife and daughter to direct the apology to both of you.

“But I am. Proud of her, that is… We’re the luckiest two people in the whole world, little lady, cause we got her…”

Apparently finding her father’s chin to be a little scratchy (with Arthur making a mental note to shave first thing in the morning), Jade reaches out into the open air, and Arthur can’t help but reach right back. He adjusts his hold on her, freeing one hand to let her grip her tiny digits around his singular finger. He feels like a giant, but he’ll be damned if his heart isn’t pounding right out of his chest at how happy he is right now.

“You’ve got the best momma in the whole world, you know that? And I… Well, I’m gonna do everything I can to be a good papa, baby… Everything I can.”

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t terrified. Arthur has owned a fair few front row tickets to displays of how not to be a father, from his own Pa to how easy it has been for Marston to mess up again and again over the years. And hell, he’s never seen anyone raise a little girl before. But as he promises, with his entire heart and soul, he is going to do his absolute best to be everything he can be to Jade.

“Hey, and I hope you know how loved you are, little one. Your momma and I… God, I can’t even tell ya’, baby… You were a surprise, I’ll tell ya’, but we love you so much…” She’s squeezing around his finger as hard as she can, leaving the tiniest crescent moons from the smallest fingernails Arthur has ever seen.

“You both did so well today… you were both so brave, huh? My brave girls…” He whispers, his words riding a content sigh. Jade’s eyes begin to flutter shut, her eyelids too heavy for her little self to fight. “You get some sleep, darlin’... I’ll be here when you wake up, I promise.”

The moon is falling fast, and it’ll soon be sunrise, but Arthur just can’t bring himself to sleep and miss one second of this night, watching his girls and silently promising them the world.

370 notes · View notes

margofiore · 10 months

Text

The Greatest Gift II: Uncle Dutch

SERIES MASTERPOST

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader word count: 1435 words warnings: teeth-rotting fluff a/n: nobody asked for this but this little family will not exit my mind

tagging: @cowboydisaster @cassidylynnj @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @reaveries @elifsukirdaghehe @musicallisto

You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep, but you feel the ache that only bringing life into the world encourages deep in your core before your eyes flutter open. You’re still in your tent, the same one you woke up in less than 24 hours ago, but oh how life has changed. You’re a mother now, and Arthur a father, and you’ll be a family for the rest of your lives.

Scanning the tent, you can tell it is still dark out. Candles are scattered over yours and Arthur’s makeshift furniture to illuminate the room and there’s a quietness to the air that only comes when the moon is highest in the sky. Somehow, you know everyone around you is tucked up in bed. Everyone but your husband, that is, who is sitting by your bedside. He hasn’t noticed you’re awake, too enchanted watching his daughter sleep soundly in his arms.

Looking at them both, it all comes flooding back to you: craziest day of your life. It started so simple, thinking that the biggest surprise of the day would be the little flask of drinking chocolate your husband had brought you. You think about Moose and wonder where he’s settled for the night. Probably right next to Jack, his new best friend. The thought causes a light laugh to leave your chest through your nose in a quick exhale, which finally captures Arthur’s attention. He adjusts in his seat, oh so careful not to disturb the little bundle of life in his arms.

“Sweetheart… how’re you feeling?” The worry has pulled his brows together as he reaches to grasp your hand, entangling your fingers and squeezing gently. Arthur has had a hell of a day himself, watching the woman he loves reach absolute breaking point and exhaustion before she brought his daughter into the world. He’ll think about it a lot, over the next few months, and you’ll heal together from the experience, but for now he runs his thumb over your knuckles soothingly while he awaits confirmation that you’re okay.

“I’m alright, I think… how long was I out? What time is it?” Instinctively, you go to sit up against the headboard, but the pain around your abdomen stops you and forces you to suck in a breath through your teeth.

“Couple hours. She’s been sleepin’ wit’cha for a while.” He nods to your daughter, who you finally get a good look of. She’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, her long eyelashes fanned out over perfectly chubby cheeks.

He doesn’t need to ask if you want to hold her, he can see the yearning in your expression. He’s so careful as he holds his arm out to help you adjust your position and transfers her into your hold. She fits perfectly, and looking down at her you feel everything fall right into place, even if just for now.

“We gotta give her a name, y’know… and it ain’t Hoagy.” You half whisper, seemingly unable to take your eyes off your daughter.

Arthur watches you, fulfilled with that same rush of love you felt just seconds ago when you saw him holding her. He considers for a moment, letting the silence settle around the three of you while your life together plays out in front of him. He sees the first time he ever laid eyes on you, tacking up Diesel, the jade green reins contrasting against his golden skin matching the ribbon keeping your hair tied up. His breath was stolen from that very second.

You sure were a thief alright, taking the air from his lungs at every chance. When he caught you trying to rob him, realising it was the most sophisticated play he’d ever seen in all his years as an outlaw. When you agreed to join him, your eyes alight with excitement despite the cool demeanour you just about managed to pull off. When you appeared before him, glowing in the candlelight, jade green velvet hugging your figure as you got ready for your first big job. He realised he couldn’t live without you that night, when he watched your eyes glisten up at him while he spun you around the room, pockets full of stolen documents.

From where he’s sitting, he can see your hand supporting your daughter’s head, wedding band and engagement ring glistening against the candlelight. The green gem adorns the golden ring, and Arthur is surprised that this colour seems to have followed the two of you wherever you go. Who is he to mess around with tradition?

“How about Jade?”

You look to Arthur, not expecting the name he suggests in the slightest, but it’s a pleasant surprise.

“Jade…” you repeat, looking back down to her. Time seems to stop when her eyes flutter open to reveal the brightest green eyes you’ve ever seen in your life. They even rival Arthur’s.

It’s as if she answers you, beaming up at you with your very own nose and Arthur’s ridiculously perfect eyelashes and there’s suddenly no other name she could have.

“Hello, Jade…” you whisper, feeling the tear tracks form down your cheeks. It’s perfect. She’s perfect.

Your perfect Jade.

═══════☆═══════

The world sleeps around your little bubble, everyone in camp probably glad to be rid of your screams and cries of labour splitting the air so they can get some rest after a full day of Christmas festivities (and drinking, of course). Even Strauss and Grimshaw were fast asleep after making sure you and Jade were in good health after the birth. There is only one light lit outside your tent, only one Van der Linde pacing up and down his quarters, and he’s the original one at that.

When he peers out of his tent, finding that warm glow of candlelight across the camp, Dutch steps out into the cold, exposed outside. The snow crunches under his boots, much quieter and less satisfying than when it was fresh but a crunch nonetheless, until he reaches the entrance to yours and Arthur’s little sanctuary.

“Arthur? Mrs. Morgan?” He whispers, just loud enough to be heard by the both of you. “Come on in.” You say softly, pulling your blankets further up your waist and under Jade, “And you know it’s y/n. Don’t go gettin’ all formal on me now I’m a mother, Dutch Van der Linde…” you scold just as he steps past the threshold, Arthur standing to greet him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Congratulations to you both.” Dutch shakes Arthur’s hand, his other reaching over to pat him affectionately on the back. It’s a beautiful moment to witness: one family passing the torch to another, especially considering just how much history stands between these two men.

“Thank you, Dutch.” You respond, glancing down to see Jade sleeping undisturbed. Dutch’s hands land on his waist after hugging Arthur.

“How are you feeling, my dear? That was quite a labour.” “Much better now she’s out.” You reply honestly, becoming quite familiar with the uncomfortable ache settling in all parts of you.

“You wanna meet her?” Arthur offers, causing Dutch to glance right at you, almost silently making sure. You nod in response, nudging your head to the chair beside your bed. It’s certainly the most intimate you’ve been with the leader of your gang, the father-figure to your husband, but somehow it doesn’t phase you. It feels right, like family.

“Her name is Jade.” You add, feeling the blood rush back into both arms when she’s taken from you.

Dutch looks perhaps the most dumbstruck you’ve ever seen him as he sits, arms extended out for Arthur to take Jade from you and place her in them. If possible, she looks even tinier in his arms, even more fragile. Dutch looks bigger, if possible, but just as breakable. You would have bet your life that you saw him choke up, but you could never out him. Not until he next teases you about your awful poker face next game night, that is.

“She’s… She’s beautiful. Truly.” There’s a swell of emotion saturated in Dutch’s voice and his expression as he watches Jade wake in his arms. She coos up at him, shaking her arms around to grasp at the golden chain hanging from his waistcoat and tug gently.

“A little thief, huh Jade? You’ll do just fine…”

The smile on Dutch’s face is brilliant, but it pales to the one that replaces it when Arthur says “She’s your Goddaughter, alright.”

The shock registers, then a grin wider than you’ve ever seen on the Van der Linde.

“That she is, son. That she is…”

184 notes · View notes

margofiore · 10 months

Text

The Greatest Gift A Cowboy Could Ask For

a @rdrevents winter gift exchange for @cowboydisaster

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: Arthur Morgan x pregnant!f!reader word count: 3215 words warnings: teeth-rotting fluff, pregnant reader, labour, birth a/n: Bea! i cannot BELIEVE i got you for my winter exchange but i was SO HAPPY when the email came through! I tried to combine all three of your prompts and then proceeded to lie to you for a month about what i was writing for gift exchange whoops

anyway, merry christmas my love! this year i met you and im so glad i did! you're such a lovely soul and such a talented writer and i hope you enjoy this!! <3

tagging: @cowboydisaster @cassidylynnj @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @reaveries @elifsukirdaghehe @musicallisto

It’s the smell that wakes you up, that sweet aroma you instantly recognise as drinking chocolate. For a moment, it disorients you, because Pearson never has drinking chocolate in, but your eyelashes soon flutter open and your mind registers that you’re right where you should be: yours and Arthur’s shared tent. You’re alone, the bed beside you cold enough to know that Arthur has been up for a while, so you reach over to the gold pocket watch you stole from that poker player with the shifty eyes in Blackwater all those months back, finding the time to be 37 minutes past 9.

“Shit…” You’ve slept in. Normally, you’d lurch up, throwing on your boots and clothes and rushing out to catch up on chores, but you physically can’t anymore. Your swollen belly restricts any and all quick movements, that usual ache waking up and settling right in your spine. It’ll stay there all day, it always does nowadays.

It’ll be worth it, you reassure yourself, imagining Arthur holding his child, the one you made with him, in those big strong arms, loving it unconditionally, and the ache somehow doesn’t seem so bad, after all. There’s a weird feeling that remains that you can’t quite put your finger on, but you can ignore it enough to get on with your day, you think.

Slowly, you sit up, wrapping a woollen blanket around your shoulders to protect you from the chill of the December air. When Ms. Grimshaw found out you were pregnant, she hounded Dutch until he set you and Arthur a proper tent up, which your eyes scan over now. The cup of chocolate is still steaming and when you wrap your hands around it, the heat radiates through your hands and settles in your core when you sip. It tastes so good, the rarity of such a treat only making it better. You smile to yourself, picturing Arthur leaving it there for you to wake up with and sneaking around as to not wake you, the big old brute.

It takes you far too long to get ready nowadays, but in time you do, pulling three pairs of socks over your swollen ankles to protect your feet from the cold. Your boots are tricky to get on thanks to your 8 month bump, but you eventually manage to do it and stand up all by yourself. What a morning of achievement. And all before 10AM… just about.

═══════☆═══════

The snow crunches under your feet as you pull your coat tighter around you and step outside onto Horseshoe Overlook. Your breath dances in the air whenever you exhale while surveying the camp and your brows knit together when you don’t spot Arthur. You can see his horse by the hitching posts, munching from the trough, but Diesel, your own steed, is nowhere to be seen. You’re not concerned, Arthur has started alternating between Diesel and his mare since you became too pregnant to ride him yourself, but that doesn’t stop you from missing the both of them.

“Auntie y/n!” As usual, you hear Jack before you see him and you just about jump out of your skin when you feel his little arms hug around your leg. You have no idea how he manages to sneak up on you every damn time, and by god does it make you nervous for when your own child can crawl out of sight, but you laugh nonetheless, ruffling his hair like you so often do when you see him.

“Y’alright there, Jack?” You look down to the boy, actually having to peer over your belly to see him beaming up at you.

“Yep! Santa’s coming tomorrow and mama said if I’m good and I put one of my socks outside tonight I’ll get presents.” He’s so excited he can hardly stay still, releasing his hold on you to shuffle from foot to foot restlessly. Looking at Jack, you can see your future. You see Arthur reading Christmas stories to your own son or daughter before bed and bribing them with presents every time they misbehave in the entire month of December. The magic of Christmas is alight in Jack’s innocent little eyes, unburdened by any of the shit the adult members of the Van der Linde gang have to worry about. And you just can’t wait to share that magic with your own little family.

“Is that so?” You raise an eyebrow questioningly at Jack, crossing your arms and resting them on your belly gently,

“Uh huh! She said we have to leave room at the hitchin’ post for his reindeer, too. I told Uncle Arthur so he leaves space when he gets back with Diesel.” Now he’s stepped back, you can see just how red the tip of Jack’s nose is, despite the four scarves Abigail seems to have wrapped him in.

“You saw Uncle Arthur this mornin’?” Your curiosity piques at the mention of your husband and his curious ongoings. Jack nods, but looks off to the side, much less eager to talk about this subject.

“Uh huh. But he made me promise not to tell you where he went.” He can’t seem to fight off the smile pulling at his near-blue lips and it's goddamn adorable, but it doesn’t stop you from at least attempting to corrupt this child’s promise, planting your hands on your hips.

“Oh, yeah? What about if I had a word with Santa for you, huh? Ask if he can bring ya’ an extra chocolate bar?”

So this is what it’s come to, huh?

Bribing a 10 year old…

Forshame, Mrs. Morgan.

═══════☆═══════

It’s another hour before you find out where Arthur is. Jack doesn’t break under interrogation and you make a mental note to let his Uncle Dutch know what an asset he is to the gang. Pearson makes you bacon and eggs even though you missed breakfast on orders from both Arthur and Grimshaw to never let you go hungry in your condition. The strange feeling from when you woke up doesn’t seem to budge even with a full stomach, but that thought is pushed out of your head when you see a dog, covered in snow, burst past Charles keeping watch and come barreling towards you. You don’t have time to react or figure out what the hell is going on before there are wet paws on your lap and a fluffy, panting smile only inches away from your face.

“MOOSE! Get back here, Moose!” Arthur’s voice bellows through the camp and you can hear Diesel's gallop, but you can’t seem to see anything but dog as the hound in front of you grabs the last piece of bacon from your plate and begins licking your face.

Somehow, Arthur runs over to you and grabs who you assume to be Moose, picking him up with an ease that only his strong arms could take. You seem to be frozen in shock, your mind working triple speed to catch up with your surroundings.

Okay, what can you feel?

My face is wet.

What can you see?

My husband, holding a 50lb dog like it’s a baby.

What about smell?

Not sure, but it definitely isn’t my last piece of bacon.

“God, darlin’, are you alright? Did he hurt’cha?” Arthur’s concern is evident, wrinkling his forehead with worry as he puts the dog back on the floor, who has considerably calmed now that there is no more bacon. Arthur takes a few strides before he’s in front of you, kneeling beside you to take your face in his huge gloved hands and wildly scan his eyes over your features.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. The only casualty was my breakfast.” At 8 months pregnant, it’s hard not to find that completely and utterly tragic, but at least your baby is safe.

“That damn dog… I should’a listened when the guy told me he’s got a mind of his own.” Satisfied of a lack of wounds to your person, Arthur stands, holding out both hands to help you up too. You fall into his embrace perfectly, finally feeling the relief of the first contact with your beloved for the day. It makes everything feel that much better, that much safer in his arms that you hum contentedly.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” Arthur whispers into your hair, placing a kiss right atop your head, “Good morning…” you sigh out, basking in the bubble that’s forming around the two of you, as if you’re the only ones in the world. “Thanks for the chocolate this morning.”

“My pleasure.”

You both stay there for a while, swaying in your embrace, until you eye what’s going on around you and have to break the moment.

“...Arthur?” “Yeah?” “Why is there a dog eatin’ one of Dutch’s books?” “Ah shit… Moose! NO.” Arthur all but barks, his arms slipping from your waist to retrieve Moose. He slips a rope around Moose’s collar, which seems to calm him quite a bit, enough to be able to lead him back over to you. Now the excitement has died down, Moose sits beside Arthur, doting up at you with the epitome of ‘puppy dog eyes’.

Alright… it’s pretty damn cute.

And when Arthur sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, you know he’s yours. You can read your husband like a book.

“I, uh… The other month y’said you’ve always wanted a dog, and I figured it'd be easier to get a dog then a baby rather than the other way around and… and well you’re giving me so much this year, more than I can ever repay and… well, merry christmas, Mrs. Morgan.” His nervous ramblings that only you seem to have the ability to enable are a pleasure to watch. They grow your grin by the second, as does the goofiest dog you’ve ever seen smiling up at you. You’re so happy you could burst, though you certainly wouldn’t want to in your state. You’re completely speechless for a second.

“You’re… you’re not mad, are ya?” “I mean, I ain’t never heard’a somethin’ so bold as gettin’ a new dog a month before givin’ birth, but no. I… I love him. Thank you, Arthur.” You reach onto your tiptoes to throw your arms around his neck as best you can with a baby between you, kissing Arthur with enough force for him to drop the makeshift leash in complete distraction. Moose feels his release happen and runs off again, this time finding and chasing Jack around in circles while he laughs madly. Arthur snakes an arm around your waist and you feel your head fit perfectly into the crook of his neck while you watch the chaos.

“How’re y’feelin’ today? Still achin’?” “Uh huh… But I’m okay. Feel a little weird, but I think that’s normal at this stage.” You reply honestly, feeling the smallest bit of relief from the thumb circling your lower back.

“Well, take it easy, alright? I’ve done chores enough for the both of us.”

“Alright… Thank you.” You sigh, actually rather missing the hustle. You’re a ranch girl at heart who isn’t used to just sitting around, your decreasing list of things you can actually do nowadays getting more frustrating by the day.

“Not long to go now till we meet her now, angel.” “We don’t know for sure it’s a girl, cowpoke.”

“I know… I just gotta feelin’.”

═══════☆═══════

Later that evening, everyone in camp is sitting around the fire breathing like dragons as they sing christmas carols to Javier’s guitar and you’re tucked under Arthur’s arm, cuddling into him to keep warm. You’re pretty sure Moose hasn’t left Jack’s side all day. Not since he slipped him an entire bowl of stew at dinner, at least.

The strange feeling of pressure that has been building in your abdomen all day hasn’t yet relented, but you haven’t yet found good enough cause to worry anyone about it. You’re 8 months along, surely you’re supposed to feel weird?

You’re the only one close enough to Arthur to know that he has absolutely no idea what the words to this song are. He’s mumbling along to the general tune, sounding a lot like Uncle’s slurs after a few too many whiskies. It takes everything in you to not snicker at his poor attempt to guess how many of which kind of bird or performer or… maid(?) this songwriter got for Christmas, especially when you’re pretty sure you hear the words ‘seven fish-a-shittin’ leave his lips.

Everything is one fat man in a red suit away from being the perfect picturesque Christmas Eve, which you’re about to point out to Arthur when the sharpest stabbing pain rips a strangled cry from deep within your throat. Your hands shoot to your belly helplessly, wanting to grip at it to ease the pain but knowing you can’t. The carols are too loud for anyone but Arthur to notice, who instantly crouches in front of you.

“Sweetheart? What’s wrong?” He’s panicked, grasping at your arms and attempting to capture your attention away from the considerable pain you’re clearly in. Your face is scrunched up, teeth clenched down in some poor attempt to brace the pain.

“I… I don’t know. It hurts. Feels like pressure.. Right- argh!”

This time, your cry is loud enough to gain the attention of those around the fire. Javier stops playing and most everybody looks over at you. Ms. Grimshaw and Dutch both stand, concern evidently written in their expression.

“Is she alright?” Dutch asks,

“What’s happenin’, honey?” Grimshaw kneels beside Arthur in front of you. You try to breathe through the smallest hole your lips can make, focusing on the sensation as much as you can rather than whatever is happening to you. You’re trying your hardest not to worry about the baby, but it’s hard, especially with so many people now worrying about you out loud.

“I… dunno. Hurts.” You manage to get out, finding Arthur’s hand and gripping on it with a downright bruising force.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside and out of the cold, alright?” You nod, feeling Arthur holding onto one arm and who you assume is Dutch on the other helping you to your feet. You lean on them as much as possible and somehow you make it into your tent. You’re laid down on your cot just as the pain begins to subside and your lungs feel like they can open back up again. When your eyelids soften again, you see Arthur’s worried face right beside you, Grimshaw pottering around with towels and Dutch waiting by the entrance to the tent with Dr. Strauss.

“Darlin’? Y’alright?” The sheer intensity of the panic in his voice is almost more than you can bear and you know he’s being plagued by the same nightmare you are right now, just hoping to god or whoever the hell might be listening that your baby is okay.

“Mhm. S’easing now… It just came on real quick, that’s all…” Your breaths are struggled but ever so slightly more stable than before. Arthur’s thumb runs over your knuckles soothingly.

Over by the entrance to the tent, you see Dutch and Strauss in a hushed conversation that frays your nerves something awful. “What’s happening, Arthur?”

“I… I don’t know, sweetheart. But you’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

Enter Dr. Strauss, carrying his medical bag. Arthur stays right by your side as the Doctor sits in front of your cot, mumbling his apologies as he lifts up your skirts and pulls a blanket over your legs.

You’re panicking, not knowing how you know exactly, but knowing that the pressure is going to come back soon. An awful anticipation clamps your hand onto Arthur’s tighter, but Strauss’ head pops up from under the blanket before it happens. Arthur’s head whips around.

“What’s happening, doc? Is she okay? Is… is the baby gonna be okay?”

The second between Arthur’s question and Strauss’ answer lasts a lifetime. It’s an agony worse than anything this pregnancy has thrown at you in all its 8 months in existence.

“I believe you’re in labour, Mrs. Morgan.”

═══════☆═══════

It’s a long, hard labour but Arthur never leaves your side once. Not when your waters break, or when he can barely keep his eyes open. Not even when you almost break his hand the first time you try to push. He stays with you.

He’s right beside you when you start to panic between contractions, tears falling down your reddened cheeks. “It can’t be here yet- we just got a dog and it’s only been eight months and I-I don’t know if I’m ready…”

But he knows just what to say. Of course he does. He even brings Moose in to say hello and prove he has relaxed a lot since his first arrival.

He’s with you when you break, sobbing that you can’t push anymore, your forehead falling against his in pure exhaustion. “Shut up, stupid.” He scolds gently, earning a confused look from you. “You know damn well you’re the strongest woman alive and you can do goddamn anything. It’s one of the many reasons I fell for ya’. Now push, before I name this baby Hoagy after it’s Godfather.”

He’s there when she’s born, such a tiny little thing, a month early but just as healthy as if she were overdue. He’s got that smug look on his face when Strauss announces her arrival, the loudest silent ‘I told you so’ you’ve ever seen.

Arthur holds his daughter in his arms for the first time on Christmas Day, his eyes glistening in the candlelight.

“She’s… She’s perfect. She’s so perfect…”

Your energy is depleted, truly, after so many hours of labour, but you manage to sit up against the makeshift crate headboard to watch your husband and daughter meet each other.

Her tiny hands reach out for Arthur, holding onto his cheek and if you could freeze time forever and live in this moment, you would.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” Arthur whispers, shifting to kiss her palm, “Isn’t she?”

“I mean… she is, but I was talkin’ to you.” He looks up at you and you decide not to mention the tear tracks you spot on his skin.

“Oh, hush…” There’s an attempt to wave him off, but your shaky limbs don’t quite manage.

“No, I mean it. You… You’ve given me everything. I never knew I wanted to be a dad, but now she’s here and I’m holdin’ her I…” He’s choking up in a way you’ve never seen before. The great outlaw Arthur Morgan, who has killed and robbed and beaten, breaking in front of you in the most beautiful, vulnerable way imaginable. “It’s everything. I can never thank you enough. This is the best gift I could ever get, my beautiful, amazing wife.”

His words radiate through you, relaxing your spine and calming each ache bringing life to the world has given you. You can feel your eyelids get heavier by the second and it gets harder and harder to fight the sleep you so desperately need.

“Arthur?” You’re barely audible, but Arthur is sat close enough to hear you,

“Uh huh?”

“We don’t have to name her Hoagy, do we?”

“We’ll talk about it later, angel.”

587 notes · View notes

margofiore · 10 months

Text

The Greatest Gift A Cowgirl Could Ask For

a @rdrevents Valentines gift exchange for @cowboydisaster

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader word count: 4,400 words warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, explicit language, sexual themes, vaginal sex, mentions of death, unprotected sex, throwing up (TW EMETOPHOBIA), very brief mention of SA in the past, unexpected pregnancy, mentions of Micah Bell a/n: am I britney spears in her 2000 grammy award winning song??? because oops, i did it again. i don't know how I managed to get Bea as my recipient for a SECOND time, but it only felt right to carry on building this universe I've made for her and lying to her about it all week. Whoops.

Bea, my beloved, Happy Valentines Day. You deserve the world and Im so glad I could dedicate this fic to you. Honestly I probably couldn't have gotten the motivation to get back on my feet and write again if it wasn't for you. Thanks for everything you do bby and I hope this lives up to your 'if by some miracle you get me for your gift exchange disregard my prompts and write a TGG prequel' (yes she actually said that) idea. Love you lots xxx

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @luvliewriting @mrsarthurmorgan7 @photo1030 @snobbybastard

My Darling Wife,

I’m writing to you from up near Tempest Rim. I’ve tracked this bounty all over the goddamn Grizzlies and I’m ready to come home to you. I miss you so much and I’m real sorry I can’t be home in time for St. Valentines. Hopefully I can catch this bastard soon and make it up to ya. We’ll go to the theatre and sit right at the back, how’s that sound? I’ll move heaven and Earth to be beside you soon, you know I will.

I can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. I’ll be there as fast as I can be with enough money to take you out on the town. Won’t be long, I promise.

All my love, Arthur

Your finger runs over his looped script, over and over as if it will somehow will your husband out of the crumpled paper and into your bed. It’s been 2 months since the letter arrived, 2 months of the agony of not knowing if he’s dead or alive robbing you of sleep each and every night. You miss him, more than you could ever imagine one person could miss another and you honestly don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t come home.

It’s a 600 dollar bounty, it’s sure to be a tough job you constantly reassure yourself, unable to focus on anything but the absence of half of your very soul in every waking moment.

The day he comes home starts like any other. Time's arrow marches on, the sun rises and sets over your makeshift family as they work and plan and rob and hunt. You busy yourself planning a job with Karen, cushioned into your schedule between menial tasks so that it’s just that bit easier to not think about him. As usual, your efforts are in vain, but at least the chores are done, your steed Diesel is happy, and, all being well, you and Karen will have about 30 dollars to split between you when the week is out.

An hour before he comes home, everyone retires to bed, save for John (who’s on watch tonight) and you’re left alone by the campfire. It crackles and pops, embers swirling the air around you. It feels like you stare at the twisting flames until your eyes blur and burn and you can’t tell which are tears of irritation to your senses and which are your heart breaking once more.

Moments before you’re reunited with the second half of your heart, you hear John yelling. It’s instinct that drives your hand into your holster, still resting against your hip despite the late hour, and you perk up like a startled deer, straining to decipher Marston’s words.

“Who is it?!” “Arthur, you dumbass!”

Arthur.

Arthur?

“Arthur?!” It’s a breathless shout, barely heard over the rushing blood in your ears as your feet take you to your husband before your mind can even fathom that he’s here.

But sure enough, when you reach the edge of camp, heart racing, you see Arthur Morgan riding his chestnut mare straight towards you, spurring her into a gallop as soon as he lays his eye on his waiting wife. Marston probably makes some remark about who ‘decided to show up’, but to you, there is nothing but you and Arthur, two magnets parted by an unnatural force finally reaching each other again with a deafening crash.

And it is. A crash, that is, when Arthur all but throws himself off his saddle and your bodies collide, great big arms wrapping around your frame. It is then that the tears fall down your cheek, soaking into Arthur’s coat that smells so much like him it truly feels like a dream.

You thought he was dead.

Only when you’re safely in his arms, when he’s pressing frantic kisses to your head, whispering your name over and over into your hair do you allow yourself to admit that fact. You thought he was never coming back, and yet here he is. Words fail you, the overwhelming emotion settling right in your throat.

“Oh, god… oh, darlin’ I-I missed you so much…”

You feel two large hands cup your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss that holds everything and anything the past 3 months could have been had you not spent it apart. But everything fits back into place, the world starts spinning again and you’re whole the second Arthur Morgan’s lips meet yours. It lasts a lifetime, it lasts a fraction of a second. You want to stop time, keep Arthur in your arms forever and never again have to go through the torture of being away from each other. The two of you only part to throw near identical scowls at John, who is amusing himself by telling you to get a room.

Unfortunately, as Ms. Grimshaw so often reminds you all, the Van der Linde Camp is not a hotel, so tonight you will not be afforded the luxury of a private suite as John so kindly suggested. There is only your tent, hitched against the gang’s weapons wagon, the old canvas pulled around to offer a little privacy when you and Arthur first started… well, needing the seclusion.

Calloused fingers intertwine with your own digits, Arthur’s other hand flipping John off before his weight pulls you towards your little corner of camp. There's so much purpose in his stride, the need to have you all to himself, not even share you with the lord above or wildlife below, driving him forward. Driving him home.

When you’re finally, truly alone, the tears welling in your eyes glistening in the candlelight, no words are needed. Soon enough, you’ll talk for hours on end, catching each other up on every little detail of the last few months. But for now, all that there is and all that could matter is right this very second, when Arthur reaches for you, brushing a thumb over the tear tracks on your left cheek. His eyes, looking almost emerald in the dark of night, roam over each and every detail of you with such an intensity in him that you think he’s trying to remember this moment for the rest of time. You’re sure it’s one you could never possibly forget.

Arthur snakes both arms around your waist, guiding you backwards until the backs of your knees gently hit the cot and you lay back onto it. He covers the full length of you and then some, making you feel so fragile and small. It’s nice to feel breakable for once, to let go of the need to be the strongest in the room, lest you be ridiculed for being too sensitive or too weak or too womanly. Arthur knows just how strong you are, you need to prove nothing to him, so you can submit to his embrace, allow yourself to just breathe for once knowing you can break and there’s re will always be somebody to put you back together.

He lowers himself to your lips, pressing a kiss to them that doesn’t last nearly long enough. Arthur then kisses your nose, then your cheeks and chin, before trailing down to the crook of your neck. Your skin feels as though it’s on fire, so starved for the man you cannot live without that now he’s finally here everything feels that much more intense. The tiniest scrape of Arthur’s teeth against your flesh shoots through every single nerve in your body and you moan right into his ear. You can actually feel him harden against your thigh at the sweet melody of your pleasure.

Pushing Arthur’s hat off to the side, your fingers rake through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp encouragingly as he nibbles at your skin.

“Oh, Arthur… Oh, I missed you so much…” You breathlessly whisper, feeling your heart skip a beat when he pauses his movements to glance at you from under impossibly long eyelashes, jade green eyes glistening up at you.

“I missed you too, sweetheart. So so much.” His voice is soft, as if he’s handling the peacefulness around you so delicately and it causes the overwhelming emotion to well in your chest and choke up your throat. Arthur sees this, trying not to be too taken with his own surprising amount of emotion himself, and relieves you of your job of a response by directing his attention to the buttons of your shirt. You don’t remember him pushing your jacket off your shoulders, but there it lies on the floor beside the entrance to your tent, so he must have.

Despite the juxtaposition of such dainty buttonholes and such large fingers, Arthur expertly undresses your top half until you’re bare to him. He takes no time at all to take one of your nipples into his mouth, kissing and sucking at it with a hunger you feel right in your toes. You moan loudly, unable to stop yourself after yearning for this very feeling for so long.

Arthur coos and shushes you and it vibrates across your skin, not helping you stay quiet in the slightest. The hand not tugging on his dirty blonde locks reaches between your two longing bodies to begin to unbuckle his belt. You can feel your own heartbeat throbbing between your legs, your coil growing tighter and tighter by the second. It’s been almost 3 months since your bodies have joined like this, and yet you’re not sure you can wait another minute.

You’re purring for Arthur, twitching and grinding as your hand fumbles desperately at the belt. His absence from your skin is agony the second he pulls his hips back to sit up straight. Spotting your downright bratty expression, bottom lip protruding in a pout, Arthur chuckles lowly, “Patience, baby… I gotta get these damn clothes off us.” He gestures to his belt, still very much buckled around his waist. Definitely not your fault. He was being far too distracting.

He’s quick, you’ll give him that, shedding his clothes without taking his eyes off you. You burn under his stare, even more so when he crawls back on top of you to slide your boots off one by one and peel your pants and undergarments down your legs.

The heat radiates off his huge body, his cock pulsing with need. The way he’s putting his weight into his arms to stop from crushing you with his weight adds a definition to his already beautifully sculpted body. Reaching down, you brush the tip of your finger oh so gently over his rosy head, finding a bead of cum already leaking, and you snap. You can’t wait a second longer, scratching and gripping at him like he’s the air you need to breathe.

“Please, Arthur, please I need you. S-So long, it’s been so long-” “Shh, I know, princess, I know. I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Gonna take care of your pretty little cunt, I promise.” He soothes you, though his own voice is shaky from the very effort of restraining himself, maintaining his control to not drive into you and ruin you. While he whispers to you, he lines himself up at your entrance and you quiver in anticipation.

In all your years before you met Arthur, you never really saw sex as anything but something to give, or worse, something to be taken from you. You never truly understood, not until you met Arthur, who taught you it’s something to share, to experience. With Arthur, it’s different. It is connection and pleasure and it’s wonderful and god damn it, it’s addictive. So when Arthur slides into you, letting out a visceral, guttural groan as he does, everything is right in the world.

You feel so full, especially when Arthur pushes all the way to the hilt, connecting you completely at the pelvis. The moan that escapes your lips is downright obscene and Arthur crashes down into your mouth to swallow it.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been so long, or the emotion of it all, but you swear you can feel everything. Every vein and ridge, every twitch and movement of his perfect cock as Arthur slowly starts to move in and out of you.

“Fuck… s-so good, darlin. So tight- y’feel so fucking good, princess…”

You’ve never hurtled so close towards a climax so quickly in your life. His torturously slow, deep thrusts drag into your sweet spot every fucking time and trying to hold back brings a blur into your vision. Your own hips grind against his, Arthur gripping into your flesh to guide you perfectly in time with him.

“I-I’m so close already, Arthur… fuck…” You breathe out, your breath tickling Arthur’s ear and sending a visible shudder down his spine. He looks proud at your admission.

“You missed me that much, huh? Gonna cum for me already, darlin’?”

He gives you no time to respond, pressing a thumb to your clit and rubbing in time with everything else. You implode, pulling Arthur down to catch the scream you’re about to wake everybody up with. It has never felt so intense, and with every thrust Arthur fucks into you it only grows and grows, shattering you to pieces for Arthur to fix back together again.

When you return, a rhythmic thudding in your ears, the first thing you see is Arthur, of course. His jaw is fluttering madly, a bead of sweat clinging to his forehead but the candlelight makes him look ethereal. You still can’t believe he’s here, alive.

Tears start to glisten in your eyes. You’ve never cried during sex before, not for anything positive, at least, but somehow this doesn’t feel wrong. Arthur slows again, watching you, and you spot an extra shine to his own jade orbs. He knows. He feels it too.

He’s right there with you. As he always is.

He brushes a piece of hair stuck to your forehead away, and the gesture is enough to send the tears falling down the same worn path on your cheeks as before.

“I love you, Mr. Morgan…” “I love you, Mrs. Morgan…”

It seems to become too much for Arthur to stay still, and you’re glad for it. You’re desperate for the friction, already flying towards another orgasm. He’s really fucking into you this time, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. He’s groaning and growling and you decide in that moment that it’s your favourite sound in all the world.

“I… I ain’t gonna last much longer, baby…”

“C-Cum in me…” “Huh?” He slows, shuddering at the exertion required to control his movements, “I-”

But you’re not listening to his protests, your nails digging into the skin of his back and ass and anywhere else you can reach to urge him forwards again.

“Please Arthur, I-I need you… I need you to cum with me, I need you with me…” you plead with him, not truly understanding your need but honouring it. You’ve been without him for so long, you deserve him with you now.

He appears to consider you for just a moment, before diving down to lock your lips with his. His tongue delves into your mouth, tasting every bit of you and he starts to pump into you unreservedly. His body grinds against yours and the friction is perfect and you’re so fucking full and before you can even try to hold back, you’re cumming again, stars scattering your vision, heart pounding out of your chest to find release from it’s mortal, physical cage. Your inner walls twitch around Arthur’s length and this time, he doesn’t hold back either.

His eyes fly open and lock onto yours as you both climax together. It’s vulnerable and strange, but perhaps more connected than you ever thought possible for two people to be.

Arthur’s cock twitches inside you, pumping out his spend as he groans viscerally, completely losing control of his rhythm as he thrusts into you one last time, harsh and deep. You’ve never experienced this before, with Arthur or any other man, normally erring on the side of caution when it came to such matters, but even as you come down you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Whatever you and Arthur just experienced together felt spiritual, and worth much more than a little risk.

Arthur collapses, even as depleted as he is still considerate enough to collapse onto his elbows and not crush you. He slides out of you, earning a little wince, and rolls to the side so you can rest your head on his chest. It’s like a locket that’s been ripped apart, finally fixed together with the most satisfying click.

═══════☆═══════

Two months later, life has returned to its equilibrium. You and Arthur are perhaps clingier, still in a sort of second honeymoon phase where you just can’t seem to keep your hands off each other, more so than usual. It’s a side effect of prolonged solitude, you’re sure.

The first time it happens, you blame Pearson and think nothing of it. It’s pretty early in the morning and you’re sitting with Tilly and Abigail, peeling potatoes for the stew tonight. Abigail is venting her frustrations about when John did this and John said that, and everything feels so normal. Pearson arrives, throwing a rather large, rather dead fish onto the table you’re leaning against and you feel the thud from the weight of it vibrate against your back.

It isn’t until the smell invades your senses that everything starts to feel off. It smells exactly like all the other fish Pearson has ever slammed onto that poor table, which doesn’t explain why you immediately lurch forwards, grabbing an empty bucket and throwing up your breakfast. The fish stench is suffocating and all you can do is get the hell away from it, not noticing when Abigail’s brows knit together almost… knowingly?

You skip the stew that night.

―

The second time it happens, you try not to think about it. You’re riding Diesel and almost don’t make it off him in time. There is nothing to set you off, no horse shit or rotting animal at the side of the road, and yet in an instant your stomach feels like it has been flipped upside down.

The sheer volume of your retching catches Arthur’s attention and he tugs on the leather reins in his hands to steady his mare.

“Darlin’? Y’alright?”

His concern is evident in his tone and in the tight line between his brows, which deepens when he finds you unable to respond in anything but a frantic nod. He dismounts, spurs clicking against the dusty ground when he approaches you.

“Oh, sweetheart… that’s it, easy, easy… you’re okay…”

You feel gentle circles rubbed into the tense muscles of your back as you try to get through this again. It’s not lost on you that Arthur is speaking to you like a spooked horse, but it actually really does help. (You decide to prioritise peace of mind and not psychoanalyse why that is). Eventually, it relents and you regain your composure, albeit somewhat less gracefully than you’d have liked.

“Sorry… I don’t know what’s gotten into me, maybe I ate somethin’.”

Your apology for something you can’t help earns you a sad smile from your husband, who places a loving kiss on the top of your head before reaching for your discarded hat and putting it back on for you.

“Y’don’t gotta apologise. I gotcha, darlin’.”

You know he does.

He always does.

―

The third time it happens, the luxury of denial is stolen from you. It’s early enough that your view while you sit with Abigail drinking coffee involves glorious hues of orange and pink scattered around the rising sun. It’s peaceful, tranquil. The warmth of the little metal mug in your hands and Arthur’s jacket around your shoulders is enough to ward off the fresh morning chill in the air.

There is absolutely no warning when it hits, when it happens again. You’re so goddamn sick (no pun intended) of hurling. Your eyes water and your throat hurts a little and you curse under your breath when it’s over. Abi is beside you, rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you. She waits until it’s over before speaking hesitantly.

“Uh, can I ask you somethin’?”

You nod, eyes still red and glistening as you swirl coffee around your mouth to take away from the awful, acidic taste lingering.

“When did you last bleed?”

“What, like an injury? Uh, I cut my hand couple days back, but I don’t see what-“

… Oh fuck.

═══════☆═══════

The anxiety bounces around your body and you decide that you’ve become far too acquainted with the concept of nausea. You can actually tell the difference between nerves twisting your stomach and… well, let’s say it as it is: morning sickness. This is the former, you deduce, spinning both your engagement and wedding ring around your finger to give your hands something better to do than carve fingernail-shaped moons into your palm. He should be home any minute now. Any minute now and it will all change forever.

It’s quite late, but the poker game Arthur was scoping out for potential jobs is known to last a while. You’re the only one still awake, poking the embers of the campfire to keep yourself as comfortable as possible.

You hear hooves hitting dry dirt first, and it seems to trigger your fight or flight response. God, you’d love to run away from this, but that is pretty much impossible, so fight it is. It’ll be the greatest fight of your life, you’ll soon learn, one you’re privileged to be a part of. But right now, it feels like an all-consuming unknown.

Arthur can tell something is wrong the second he sees you. You’re terrible at hiding things, especially from him. He always reads you as though you have a poster advertising your feelings printed on your forehead. Arthur dismounts, kissing you tenderly on the temple and wrapping his arms around you.

“What’re you still doin’ up, darlin’? Is everything alright?” You can feel his worry vibrating in his chest as you nuzzle into his embrace.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just… Can we talk? I kept the fire goin’.” You say it into his shirt, reluctant to move from this hold.

“Of course…” there’s something in his voice, a tense apprehension that really doesn’t help the knot contorting itself in your gut.

While you’re more than capable of keeping a fire going, Arthur is an expert, and has it healthily burning within seconds of you sitting down on the overturned log the gang has fashioned into a bench. You’re back to spinning your beautiful gold bands around your finger, trying to remember to breathe in and out every so often.

“What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?” His voice is so soft, so kind that it makes you want to cry. But you promised yourself you wouldn’t until you’d told him, because this might just be the most important conversation you’ve ever had, and you definitely won’t get through it if you’re a blubbering mess.

“I, uh… I… somethin’s happened.”

You hear his breath hitch in his throat and Arthur leans towards you, completely enveloping your hands in his. They’re sandwiched in now and you can’t fiddle with your rings anymore.

“What? What happened? Was it Micah? If he’s said somethin’ to you, I’ll kill him, the rat bastard-”

“No, no, it’s… as much as I’d love to see that, it’s not him.”

The tension releases. Just a little bit.

“I’m pregnant.”

Oh wait, there it is.

The silence is deafening, even though you’re almost certain it isn’t actually silent out here right now. There's a fire going and crickets are just metres away, you’re just shutting down with nerves.

The normally so often tense, fluttering jaw of Arthur Morgan is slack, his eyes wide and gaping at you, occasionally flicking down to your so far bump-less belly. (You should know- you’ve been obsessively looking in a mirror any chance you get for some sort of sign that this is really happening).

Say something. Please say something. Please don’t be angry. Oh, God please don’t hate me.

“I-I… You’re pregnant?” He repeats, reassuring you that you haven’t actually gone deaf, though his tone holds no indication of anything but shock. That’s probably fair…

You nod, hands instinctively reaching over your belly. It feels… weird. Holding your hands over your baby. Yours and Arthur’s baby.

“It happened a couple months back, when you got back from The Grizzlies, I think… I-I’m sorry, Arthur. I shoulda’ been more careful and-and…” You’re rambling, filling a silence that probably should just be allowed to be a silence.

“There… There’s gonna be a baby?”

There. Right there, adorning Arthur’s beautiful features, is the pull of a smile. It chokes you up instantly, so far deep in nightmares of arguments and unhappiness that you hadn’t even considered the good. You start to nod, a little bit of your fringe falling in your face.

“Yeah… There’s gonna be a baby. Our baby…”

“Our baby…” He repeats, his arm raising to brush the hair away from your eyes in such a natural manner it feels like it’s just his instinct to care for you. It is his instinct to care for you, Arthur has shown you that in every minute of every day of your marriage, and suddenly you’re not sure why you’ve been so scared.

“I’m gonna be a dad?” He still seems in disbelief, but that’s normal. It’s taken you a few days to come to terms with it, and even then the fingernail marks in your palms are still red raw.

“You’re gonna be a dad.”

It hits him. Really hits him and he all but throws himself into you, scooping you up and spinning you around as he laughs unreservedly.

“Well goddamn, I’m gonna be a Daddy!”

You laugh with him, worries and anxiety a distant memory as your feet swing around in the air. You’re probably waking the camp up, but you don’t care all that much. Right now, you’re the happiest girl in the world.

A baby. There’s gonna be a baby. Arthur’s baby.

Really, it’s the greatest gift a cowgirl could ask for.

504 notes · View notes

margofiore · 10 months

Text

you made me

pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

word count: 3.3k words

warnings: 18+, angst, smut, oral (r receiving), orgasm

a/n: I honestly dont know where this came from hehe - Ive been so blocked all week and thought Id bash some angst out and got.... carried away whoops. Hope you enjoy!

tagging: @faye-tale @slut4colinbridgerton

My requests are currently open!

Thomas Dorset’s lips were oh so close to your ear, so much so that his breath brushed your lobe when he told you just how stunning you looked tonight. It tickled, but not in the way you were used to. Not that you expected it to. This was, after all, Thomas Dorset. Nobodys breath tickled hot fire across your skin quite like-

No. Not tonight.

You had promised your mama that tonight was about finding a suitor. You had promised yourself that you would stop breaking your own heart day after day waiting. You couldn’t think of him. Not tonight.

The task seemed near impossible when you felt it: the crackle of electricity against the back of your neck, the fair hair standing to attention and a shiver running down your spine. You felt his eyes- Viscount Anthony Bridgerton’s eyes- staring furiously past his friend Mr. Dorset and right at you, wine glass clutched in gloved hands with a vice-like grip. Even from across the dimly lit ballroom, you could see the tension in his jaw as his teeth clenched. His brother Benedict appeared to be talking with him, but Anthony seemed too engrossed in his fury to have even noticed.

Your heart pounded in your chest, seemingly desperate for escape. You couldn’t blame it, part of you wishing you could be swallowed up by the Bridgertons beautiful wooden dance floor, or perhaps kidnapped by pirates and taken to The Americas. Anything to help subdue the hurt you were feeling right now.

Dorset twirled you around as you attempted to mumble out responses to the small talk he was trying his hardest to harvest. Poor Thomas, you thought, watching an actual bead of sweat produce on his forehead from the excursion of conversation with you, he doesn’t have a clue.

How could he? Nobody did. From the outside, there was no way to know your heart belonged to another, which was exactly the problem. You had been with Anthony for almost a year now, in secret, and he had made it obvious he had no intentions with you. You, on the other hand, had to marry. You had to help provide for your mama, there was no other option. Hence why the University chum of the love of your life was bowing his head to you gratefully as the music died down.

You smiled politely, thanking Thomas for the dance, knowing full well there would absolutely not be a second. Your cheeks ache. Your heart hurts. It always was so much harder to maintain a fake smile than a real one.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You breathed the cool air in deeply, as though emerging from being submerged in water for hours, and glanced around the terrace to ensure you were alone. Glancing at your dance card, you grimaced, knowing Viscount Darby would be waiting on the dance floor for you at this very moment. It was most improper to leave him waiting, but after feeling Anthony’s intense glare on you for the last 10 minutes, you were starting to lose the ability to breathe. He hadn’t approached you. Of course he hadn’t, you thought bitterly, gripping onto the vine entwisted railing until your knuckles were white, as if you could somehow transfer pain from the heart to the hand.

Tears pricked at your eyelashes, threatening to fall and you shook your head furiously, trying in vain to will them out of existence. A stray curl fell from your coiffure right in front of your face and you cursed. Again, most improper, but so was falling in love with a man you had been secretly living in complete and utter ruin and sin with for a year. Maybe you were just improper. Perhaps that was why he wouldn’t marry you or court you or anything of the sort.

Whatever it was, it was done, and you weren’t going to find a husband with dishevelled hair like this.

You had been snuck into the Bridgerton house enough times to know that you were only a hallway away from the nearest washroom. It wasn’t perhaps open to the rest of the guests, but you’d much prefer to stay away from anyone else until you looked less like you’d just been compromised. A harsh laugh escaped your throat as you snuck away back into the house. Compromised. Imagine that.

As suspected, the hallway was empty, but you had actually been snuck out through this very entrance, so knew exactly how to get to the washroom. It was three doors down to the left, you just had to go past Anthony’s stud-

“A word, Miss y/l/n?”

You gasped, every muscle in your body somehow simultaneously frozen and on fire. The most nauseating drop of dread fell into the pit of your stomach.

You turned on your heel to the origin of the voice, seeing Anthony leaning against the doorframe in the entrance to his study.

Longing eyes shared a moment together, before you realised there was absolutely nothing you could say that would dissuade Anthony from having this conversation with you. Wordlessly, you walked past him into the office.

The fire was lit and you once more felt like an ant under a magnifying glass, ready to burn on the spot at any moment. The air was suffocating for a second and then even more so as Anthony’s intoxicating scent was pushed into you after locking the door and stepping towards you. He towered over you, almost backing you into the bookshelf as your wide, defiant eyes blinked up at him. You couldn’t speak, having imagined this conversation so many times over so many tears that the real thing didn't feel real at all. Conviction threatened to collapse just after seeing him, but you swore you wouldn’t break. You had to follow your duty, no matter what he had to say.

Anthony’s eyes were dark and you spotted a muscle in his jaw flutter. You tried not to think of the other times you’ve spotted that muscle, while he grit his teeth to try to last longer inside you and keep your precious time together going as long as possible.

“Dorset is not suitable for you.”

You scoffed, all heartbreak halted for a moment as you attempted to fathom his audacity.

“Jealousy isn't becoming of you, my Lord.” you spat, trying not to notice Anthony wincing at the sudden formality between the two of you.

Anthony’s eyebrows knitted together, sadness creeping across his face and defying his angry demeanour.

“Was that not your intention? To make me jealous? Why else would you be dancing with half of London all night, flaunting yourself in front of me!” It was your turn to wince at the raised volume to which he shouted, his accusations of flaunting painful. Truly you had not intended to make him jealous, but you were on a mission to find someone to care for you and your family. Dancing was rather mandatory at a London ball when in want of a husband.

“I beg your pardon, my Lord-” “Anthony.” “-but I fail to see how who I dance with is any of your concern. I am a Lady and you know full well how improper it would be for me to decline an offer of a dance from a gentleman.”

Your breath caught in your throat as Anthony took a step forward. Your back hit the bookshelf gently and strong arms clad in a velvet jacket encased you in.

“And when, exactly, did you start caring about propriety, little siren?” The nickname he had for you was instantly intoxicating and you felt something inside of you crumble and desire pool deep. You were forced to push it all down, absolutely determined.

His breath tickled your skin- exactly how you liked it- as he spoke, whispering deeply “You think Dorset can give you what you want? You think he will know you as I do? Every trick,-”

His tongue flicked against your ear so gently that you could have screamed.

“-every moment, all those depraved, wicked things you love? Only I know those, little siren. Only I know you like you need to be known…”

It would be easy, so easy, to give in, especially as your Anthony’s lips came closer and closer to your-

“No!” You exclaimed, ducking under one of Anthony’s arms to escape. The confusion on his features was a stab to the heart and a punch to the gut all in one. You had never felt such physical, palpable pain for something so intimate and emotional.

“What is going on, y/n?” He demanded, the fury of earlier in the evening returning to his eyes.

“I cannot do this! I cannot do this anymore, Anthony. The time we shared was…” words failed you, unable to do justice to the sheer weight of the time you and Anthony shared together, “Whatever it was, it isn’t sustainable. I need to be with someone I can marry, someone to provide for my family. You have made it more than clear that you do not desire to state your intentions on me, so this… This cannot continue.“

You could almost see the cogs whirring around in Anthony’s brain before completely falling apart, shattering with a silent crash. The tension fell away from his jaw and if it wasn’t so dark in the study you would have sworn you saw his eyes glisten.

And your entire being broke all over again.

“I… I see.” He managed, swallowing hard. “I… I did not realise you needed to… I see.” He trailed off, suddenly unable to meet your hard gaze. Your eyes dropped to the floor too, knowing each second of that intense eye contact was another moment you weren’t sure you could handle.

“I did not mean to… That is to say, I-” “It is fine, Anthony. There is nothing left to say. I shall take my leave, my lord.” And without meeting his gaze again, you attempted to make your way to the door. A hand grasped around your arm stopped you in your tracks.

“Why do you think that? That I should not wish to marry you?” Your eyes met. It was a mistake, you knew that as soon as you noticed the sadness pooled in Anthony’s face. It was unbearable. If it wasn’t for such a stupidly obtuse question, you may have lost some of your resolve.

“I know what I am to you. We had fun, but you hid me away in the shadows, my lord. A Viscount needs a Viscountess he can show off to the ton, do you not think? Not a ruined woman he is ashamed to be seen with.” The tight grip on your skin loosened but didn’t fully subside, Anthony not yet ready to let go, it seemed.

“Y/n… Do you know why I didn’t announce our courtship?” You blinked, and upon realising that was answer enough, Anthony continued, “I felt guilty. I felt I took liberties with you and the ton can be so unforgiving to ladies such as yourself. If they found out what we did? What we shared? You would be ruined, forced to marry me and spend a miserable life with a husband who compromised you… I… I lo- I care for you too much to allow you to settle because of my actions.”

The revelation split the world in half. Or, at least it felt like it did. Your legs felt like jelly and you wished more than almost anything that there was an aptly named fainting chair around for you to drape upon dramatically. Your skin fizzed under Anthony’s grasp and your hairs once again stood on end. Jaw slack, lips trying to form words that refused to be spoken, you tried to figure out if Anthony was telling you just what he thought he was telling you.

“You… You didn’t ruin me, Anthony. The ton may say otherwise but I don’t see it as ruined, I never did. I don’t regret what we did, I didn’t regret it the first time and I haven’t regretted it since. You didn’t ruin me, you made me and if I could live the rest of my life with you I would. I… I…”

At some point, your arm had slipped from Anthony’s grasp. Tears were welling in your eyes and you were both breathing hard, panting. The silence grew and the room got smaller and in that one moment, it became inevitable.

You became engulfed in Bridgerton blue velvet and pulled against Anthony’s warm body, lips clashing with his violently. Books fell to the floor as you managed to push Anthony into the shelf, your tongues angrily dancing together.It was hot, it was needy, it felt as if your futures together lie in this kiss, as long as you could hold on and never let go.

“Y/n…” Anthony breathed through kisses, a hand reaching to push the stray piece of hair that was responsible for this whole exchange behind your ear. “Y/n, y/n, y/n… my darling…” He was breathless, breaking the intense kiss between the two of you to pepper more down your neck. Everything fell apart from the two of you, leaving two souls alone in the world, about to change their lives forever.

You closed your eyes, allowing the tingles to spread across your silky skin with each kiss like ripples in a pond. When your lashes fluttered open again, you had to look down to see Anthony, who was holding onto your hips and was knelt before you, his head inches away from your belly.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him knelt before you like this, but it was the first time you were clothed. The fire crackled beside the two of you, illuminating Anthony in the most stunning glow as he snaked a hand around to take your hand.

“What are you-”

“Marry me.”

“What?”

He didn’t seem to even blink, gazing at you with enough intensity to make you feel like some sort of masterpiece in a gallery.

“Marry me. Not because I compromised you, not because you must marry to care for your family, not because I am the only one who truly knows you. Marry me because I love you. Marry me because I am a bloody fool who couldn’t see what was right in front of me. Marry me because you, y/n, made me. Marry me because-”

You couldn’t wait.

“Yes! Yes. Anthony, I- my God, Anthony… Of course I’ll marry you. I love you too.”

Tears of pure joy and absolute unadulterated happiness welled in your eyes as Anthony shot up and whisked you into his arms, spinning you around. He kissed every inch of your face and neck, just whispering your name over and over again until it ceased to sound real. God, it better be real.

Both feet firmly back on the ground, your cheeks were squished together by Anthony’s strong hands as he pulled you back close to him for another kiss. He kissed away the tears falling down your cheeks. He kissed your jaw and your nose and he anchored his fingers into your coiffure, fingers sensually scratching the back of your head. You mewled deliciously, teasing a growl out of Anthony’s chest. Closing the gap between you, he reached around to unbutton your dress expertly, more than used to your intricate ball gowns. It wasn’t long before there was a puddle of silk on the office floor and the skin of your back was exposed to the heat of the fire. It no longer suffocated you, instead fuelling your passion. Every sensation felt like ecstasy at that moment.

Your fiancé led you over to his desk, sitting you down on it as he knelt between your legs. He didn’t break eye contact as your underwear was pulled down your leg slowly. Stockings were peeled off your legs. You were now completely bare, practically dripping onto the desk while Anthony bowed below you. Seeing him knelt there, ready to pleasure you might just have been the hottest thing you’d ever seen. You felt that same tickle of breath between your legs and you fought to stay still.

Torturously slowly, Anthony’s tongue slipped out, licking a line all the way up your slit, dipping into you ever so slightly before flicking over your clit. You cried out, grabbing Anthony’s hand and entangling your fingers with his thick curls.

“Shhh…” He cooed, the vibrations of his hush felt right at your core. Anthony’s hand snaked up your chest, taking care to brush your hardened nipples on the way up as he guided you to lay back onto the papers strewn across his desk. Another long lick bucked your hips into the sky and you tried to muffle your moan by biting onto your arm. He pulled away, never once breaking eye contact with you as his devilishly rakish smirk grew and grew.

After what felt like torturous hours of breath teasing at your exposed, soaked cunt, he finally delved in, kissing and nipping and licking in all the right places. He knew you and he knew just how to reel your coil tighter and tighter until you were grinding against his face chasing release.

“Oh, God, Anthony…” You whined, reaching for the hand that wasn’t holding your chest to the desk so you could hold onto it, feeling as though if you weren’t grounded by Anthony, you might just fly off into the sky.

“Fiancee…” He breathed out, before taking your clit into his mouth and sucking. You couldn’t help but scream his name, damn anyone who may walk past, as you are catapulted over the edge by your Viscount’s expertise. As you came, the sweet suction on your nub pulled and pulled at your centre until tears formed and fell down your cheeks once more. Gentle licks at your dripping juices gently let you back down to Earth as the white hot melting of your mind subsided to a gentle, satisfied fuzziness.

Trying to catch your breath, your lashes fluttered down to between your legs, where Anthony still knelt, looking up at you with all the love and lust in the world. If not for the racing of your heart and rushing of blood in your ears, you would have sworn this was a dream, a fantasy you would wake from. But it wasn’t, emphasised by the slight jolt sent up your spine when Anthony nibbled at your inner thigh .

“So… Do you still wish to marry me? Or shall I return you to your…” Anthony glances down to the floor, picking up the long discarded dance card that must have fallen in your passion, “Mr Bradshaw? Oh, my love… You’re staying here with me, for your toes and sanity if nothing else.” He began peppering kisses over your skin, up your stomach and chest until he was on top of you, catching your lips every time he could manage to get in through the giggles.

“Don’t be cruel!” You blushed as Anthony’s tender kisses moved to your cheeks and nose, “But yes, of course I still wish to marry you. But- oh, God!” You almost shot up, very nearly bashing Anthony in the forehead, “I’ve been gone for so long!! My Mama will-”

“Think you’ve been kidnapped and compromised by a handsome Viscount? Oh, my stars…” Anthony whispered, his eyebrow raised and boyish grin fully formed now your womanhood wasn’t blocking your view. You hit him gently on the chest before pulling him in for another kiss, quite literally in awe of this man and enthralled by how quickly everything had changed.

“And what, pray tell, does this handsome Viscount intend to do with me next?”

“Oh, he intends to absolutely ruin you…”

2K notes · View notes

margofiore · 10 months

Text

stay with me (anthony bridgerton x kate sharma)

pairing: Kanthony

warnings: blood, injury, gunshot wound, risk of death, angst?

word count: 2.3k

anon asked: I know that you’re taking Bridgerton prompts and I was wondering if you could do a Kanthony prompt where Anthony gets hurt? And Kate gets shaken up by it. We always get prompts of Anthony mother henning everyone (and I love it). But I’d love to see Kate in That role with Anthony.

A peaceful silence had fallen over Bridgerton House, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and occasional page turn of Kate’s book.

These moments were rare when you had three children, especially at ages 12, 10, and 5, but luckily for Kate and the deliciously intriguing book she had been trying to read for months now, the boys were visiting their cousins at My Cottage, due back at any moment, and Anthony had taken Charlotte into town for some father daughter time.

Kate smiled to herself at the thought of Anthony and Charlotte, her eyes scanning over the words on the page but nothing really registering as she pictured the two of them together. Of course, the Viscount loved all his children dearly (and equally, he might add), but something happened the day Charlotte was born. He might have burned for Kate, adored her and worshipped her, but anyone could see his true soulmate was his daughter.

And Kate didn’t mind one bit, she thought, starting the same page over again.

The smiled remained on her lips as she finally allowed herself to fall back into the world bound between the leather in her hands. The peace settled around her for a moment, then shuddered as a distant thump, then crash, then voices were heard coming from the floor below.

A soft laugh fell from Kate’s lips. The boys must be back.

She waited to hear their Governess, usually not too far behind a crash of this sort, and bet herself a new book that the name she would shout next would be Miles.

The voices below grew louder, but Kate couldn’t seem to figure out what exactly they were saying. She closed her book and put it on the table beside her, straightening her skirts as she stood and headed out of the door.

As she opened it, the chaos seemed to grow much more intense, the harsh energy popping the serene bubble Kate had constructed over the afternoon. Her brows knitted together with a tight worry that reached right down to the pit of her stomach. Something wasn’t right.

Her feet picked up pace and before Kate knew it she was at the top of the stairs, the floor falling from beneath her as her gaze fell onto the scene.

Two footmen held Anthony up, who was crying out in pain. He seemed to leave a trail of blood from the door to the stairs and his skin was white as a sheet.

“Anthony!” Kate shrieked, her feet somehow making their way down the stairs to bring her to her husband. Her hands landed onto his cheeks and her eyes scanned his features. There was so much pain in his eyes, so much fear that she wondered if she might ever remove this image from being etched behind her eyelids.

“Ka-argh!” Anthony cried out again, doubling over in pain. Kate felt a panic of guilt that her name passing from his lips could ever cause such pain, and shushed him gently.

“It’s okay… it’s okay, don’t talk.” She softly demanded, before a more immense panic than Kate had ever felt in her life struck her in the stomach and she looked frantically to the footman to Anthony’s left.

“Where’s Charlotte?!”

“In the gardens, my lady. Mrs. Crompton took her away as soon as they returned. She’s fine.”

Slight relief washed over Kate, but only very briefly as Anthony cried out once more.

“We need to get him laid down, my lady…” The footman pressed, dragging Kate painfully back to the room.

Her eyes darted around the room, as if a bed might magically appear in front of her. Think, Kate. Get back in the room, Kate.

“Bring him to our bedchambers and call a doctor. Now.” She barked, her authoritative tone coming from God only knows where. The two footmen nodded and complied, another hurrying to help carry the Viscount up the stairs and into the bedroom.

Kate followed closely behind, each whimper of pain another stab to her heart as her beloved was laid down on what she prayed to anyone who would listen wasn’t his final place of rest. This was their marriage bed, and yet his blood was seeping into the mattress at a rate Kate had never seen before.

“He’s loosing a lot of blood.”

“The Doctors on his way.”

“I have informed the doorman to send masters Edmund and Miles to the dowager Viscountess along with Miss Charlotte.”

“We need towels, immediately!”

“My lady, you’re white as a sheet, do you want to step outside for a moment?”

The words swam around Kate like some sickly medicine, though nothing seemed to actually make it through to registering properly. She sunk to her knees beside Anthony as his shirt got ripped away from his back to reveal more blood than she had ever seen in her life. Kate felt a horrifying energy bounce around her being as she sunk to her knees beside Anthony. He grabbed her hand and Kate felt how slick and sweaty he was.

“Kate…” he was weak. Weaker than Kate had ever heard and it wrenched a sob from her throat.

“Don’t speak, darling. Save your strength…” she squeezed his hand once and tried her hardest to smile reassuringly at her husband, but the tears falling down her cheeks gave her away terribly.

“What happened?!” She demanded to one of the men in the room, the only one not milling around trying to make Anthony as comfortable as possible.

“I believe it was a thief, my lady. He had a gun and the Viscount was hurt getting Miss Charlotte out of the way. We lost them exploring the alleyways of the city, I am so sorry.”

Kate shut her eyes to help quell the intense gut punch she felt at that moment. Of course he did this protecting their daughter.

“It isn’t your fault. Thank you.”

She nodded the man away, who left the room in a hurry to do whatever it was everyone else was at that moment. Something helpful, she assumed, though her mind would not allow her to consider what.

They were alone in the room now, Anthony’s head falling to the side as he fought to stay awake.

“You stay with me, Anthony Bridgerton, or I swear I’ll kill you myself.” She said to him through gritted teeth, though Anthony knew better than to respond with anything other than a weak smile.

It should have helped, but if anything the smile reminded Kate of every other time he had smiled at her in their time together, and how different this was.

Kate looked down to his wound, which was still bleeding profusely in a way that even Kate knew couldn’t be sustained much longer. She was panicking, hard, watching the other half of her heart as his life seemed to flicker away, and all she could do was cry and plead. She felt helpless. Damn useless.

“Kate, darling…” Anthony said weakly. Kate pressed a hand to his cheek and tried her best to muster a smile.

“Don’t talk, my love…”

“But I-“

“Please… Whatever it is, you can tell me when this is all over, can’t you?”

Anthony didn’t seem to have the energy to argue. He seemed to slump back into his pillow, his eyes starting to flutter close. Kate frantically stood, gripping his arm.

“Anthony? Anthony! You have to stay awake, darling, please…” Kate pleaded, shaking his arm as lightly as her panic would allow. Just then, the footmen returned, with three of the ton’s best doctors in tow.

“I don’t think he’s breathing!” Kate cried, getting as close to she could to the front doctor without letting go of her husband’s arm.

“Get her out of here!” One of the doctor’s barked, as two footmen stepped towards Kate. She was crying freely now, though how she held enough composure to step back and shout “No!” was beyond her.

“My lady, we must insist-“

“I can’t… I can’t leave him.”

It seemed absolutely impossible to part herself from his side, terrified that if she left this room now, when she returned the world may never be the same again.

The doctors had already got to work, though through the flurries of bodies Kate couldn’t say exactly what it was they were doing.

“There is nothing more you can do, my lady…” One of the men gently told her, clearly trying his absolute hardest to get through what must have been one hell of a day of work.

All the fight left in Kate’s body seemed to dissipate. She could no longer see her husband for the bodies around him, may well have seen him for the last time living and breathing, and now she was being pulled out of the room like a limp rag doll.

—

The nexts minutes, hours, days (Kate couldn’t seem to decide which) passed by in agony. Kate stayed by the door, ignoring all offerings for refreshments or places to sit. It had to be a good sign that they were still in there. No doctor would spend so long on a corpse… That was what Kate told herself, at least, over and over again until the words lost their meaning entirely and echoes around her mind like some morbid songbird.

After an eternity and a half, the door handle twisted and the head surgeon appeared. Kate had always been good at reading people, but her powers seemed depleted on this man, keeping the awful suspense hanging in the air like a swarm of bees.

“The Viscount is stable, my lady. Though he has lost a lot of blood and will need to rest for many months, he is stable.”

It was a feeling unlike any other Kate had experienced. Her breath caught in her throat, before letting out the longest sigh of her life. She hadn’t realised when she had started crying, nor when her head fell to her hands. She felt the relief in her knees, in her blood, in her palms. She felt the gratitude to every being she had sent prayer in every inch of her soul.

She may have spoken to the doctor, but she really couldn’t say what, pushing past him to find Anthony laid in bed, a bandage wrapped all around his stomach. Even like this, with half his blood soaked into their mattress, Kate couldn’t help but notice how the shadows flirted with each and every crevice of his body, embracing each defined muscle.

“Kate…” He whispered softly, though the sound rang through to Kate’s ears perfectly. Someone had already taken the precaution of bringing a chair to Anthony’s bedside, which Kate rushed to, grabbing Anthony’s hand.

It felt warm, and a part of Kate seemed to return to her. She knew from experience what holding the hand of a dead man was like, and never wanted to know again. Anthony’s hands were always so warm that she was quite certain anything else might kill her.

“My love…” Kate whispered, leaning so close to Anthony that her breath danced on his ear. The remaining doctors finished packing their instruments, nodded to both Kate and Anthony and left, leaving the two of them alone.

“I thought-“

“I know… Me too.” Anthony rubbed Kate’s knuckles with his thumb reassuringly. He adjusted his position, flinching as he did so.

“Can I help?” Kate asked, fluffing Anthony’s pillow slightly under him.

“Can you heal bullet wounds?” He responded, eyebrow raising ever so slightly. Of course he was vexing her, even now. Kate pursed her lips, making no attempt to hide to amusement in her expression as she scrunched her nose.

Anthony grinned back cheekily, knowing full well that this was, at the very least, one of the only times Kate Bridgerton would ever let him get away with such comments.

There was a moment of comfortable silence as they simply looked at each other. They took in each and every sight there was to see, Anthony counting Kate’s eyelashes, Kate greeting every mark or freckle on Anthony’s face like a friend she could never have seen again.

“Will you join me?” Anthony whispered, looking over to the empty spot on the bed beside him.

“Are you quite mad?” Kate spluttered, her eyes wide.

“Not like that, you minx…” Anthony teased, wiggling his eyebrows, “Only you, Kate Bridgerton, would come onto me while I have a bullet in my side.”

Kate’s lips parted into a tiny O. She almost whacked him on the arm, as she had done any other time he’d had the audacity, but present injuries prevented Kate’s usual retort.

“I didn’t-“

“Just sit with me, Kate. I’m not too fragile I can’t handle you, I promise.”

Anthony chose not to point out how many times Kate had said the very same thing to him.

The fight between head and heart was a short one for Kate, but in her defence, it had been an emotional day. She walked around the bed and crawled in beside Anthony, careful to curve herself away from the wounded area. Her head rested on his shoulder, forehead fitting perfectly into the crook of his neck. It seemed a little cliche, but they really did just fit.

“Is Charlotte okay?”

Kate nodded.

“The children are all with your mother. They’re fine.”

“Thank God…”

Kate nodded once more, inhaling deeply to try to fill her lungs for the first time in what felt like days.

“Don’t ever do this to me again…” Kate warned, though near the end her words seemed to lose their conviction towards the end.

“I promise…” Anthony replied, his voice barely a whisper. They were both drifting to sleep, entwined in the comfort that it was going to be okay.

And he kept his promise. Anthony Bridgerton never got shot again.

81 notes · View notes

margofiore · 10 months

Text

The NSFW a-z of a Mr. Benedict Bridgerton.

pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

warnings: 18+, mature, sex, kinks, dom/sub, bdsm, utter filth tbh

a/n: doing this challenge with Matt Murdock was sooo fun so I just had to do it for our bby boy Benny. hope you enjoy!! theres a sneak peek of one of my WIPs in there too- hit me up for taglist!!

taglist: @faye-tale @slut4colinbridgerton

my requests are currently open!

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex) Soft. So very soft. It can be striking, especially after a scene, how soft he is, cleaning you up with all the care in the world, bundling you up and cuddling into you, playing with your hair or tickling your back. On the rare occasion that post-intercourse you actually have the energy to, you return the favour.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) His favourite body parts of his own are his arms. He loves how small you feel when he wraps them around you or bundles you up in them. He adores your eyes, your lips and your beautiful soul, but also, your pussy drives him crazy. He loves to draw or paint it, live or from memory in all kinds of styles, before treating it just how deliciously you deserve to be treated.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person) Benedict loves to see the splatters of his cum he leaves all over you. He calls you his masterpiece, trailing the slick along your curves with his finger before popping it into your mouth to clean off.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) Benedict keeps a sketchbook he only ever keeps on his person, whenever he is away from you on business. It is full of nude sketches and paintings of you and, alongside a pack of all the letters you write him, he gets off to them when he cannot hold you close.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?) He certainly sowed his oats before he met you, but that doesn’t bother you. If anything, you feel safe trying these new experiences with him as he gently guides you through this wonderful, passion-filled world.

F = Favorite Position Missionary so he can see every little expression his girl makes because of him, hear every whimper and feel every breath tickling across his neck. He loves it when he makes it so all you can do to not scream out his name is bite down, and in missionary the only thing to bite down on is him. It’s all very calculated, you see.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc) Definitely more serious. Benedict is carnal and passionate, often getting lost in the moment. Overcome with the powerful emotions you emit from each other, your love making can transcend the four walls (or fences) you are in. Of course, if the moment calls for it, he can have fun and relax, his passions dictated by the energies you share.

H = Hair (How well-groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.) Trimmed not shaven, featuring a snail trail that peeks over his breeches and onto his abs, driving you wild.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…) As above, Benedict can be very intimate and in the moment. Being with you is a gift to him, something he could never take for granted. Every moment spent wrapped in you is seared into his memory.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon) Before you were married, Benedict couldn’t get anything done. His yearning for you (quite literally) popped up constantly, his cock aching until he could genuinely take no more and had to lock the door to his study and get himself off to the thought of your pretty little face twisted in pleasure. He couldn’t help it, you intoxicated his thoughts from the moment you first placed your hand on his shoulder to dance, nothing truly easing the need until he had you on your wedding night.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks) Bondage and submission. To Benedict, there is no better sight than his pretty little good girl knelt in front of him, hands tied behind her back, reading and waiting for her first order.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do) His studio is the best place for passion-fuelled, spontaneous fucks. Paint and charcoal mix with sweat and spit and make art all over the two of you.

For planned scenes and play, your shared bedchambers, where you feel most comfortable and can fully let go into submission.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going) You. Benedict is enamoured by you, burns and breathes for you. Your pleasure is his pleasure, the joining of your bodies and souls motivating him to work hard in the daytime so he can spend his nights entangled in you.

Other than the poetic wonder of love, you make him feel better than he ever imagined possible.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) Knife/blood play. You try impact play, but Benedict could never harm his masterpiece further than that.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) The sight of you knelt before him, tears clinging to your long eyelashes as he fucks your face is one Benedict will forever consider one of the best views in England. But he also knows how much you love his expert tongue, licking and nipping at your cunt and clit until you’re grinding against his face, screaming out his name. The best view in England, he might add.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.) It very much depends on the mood. You have enjoyed slow, lazy Sunday morning sex just as much as you’ve enjoyed being pounded against the washroom door, biting down on Ben’s balled up cravat so that no one at the ball can hear you.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.) Again, if the moment calls for it, Benedict can very much enjoy quick stolen moments wherever he can have you.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.) Absolutely. When you met Benedict, you were an innocent. He has been right beside you as you explored this world, teaching you everything and anything you wanted to know about lusts of the flesh.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…) Long enough to give you both the bloody best time. You’re often surprised at how quickly Ben is ready to go again.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?) Benedict can get experimental with what he brings to the bedroom (or wherever you may be at the time). He has tied you up with his cravat, teased you with his paintbrushes and more. What can he say? He’s a creative man.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) Oh, he is such a tease. Some nights he will have you sat on his lap until you’re writhing and begging him to fuck you, while he acts as though whatever is on his desk is the most important document in the world. You know full well from the throbbing under your butt cheeks that he is simply an excellent actor.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make) Growls and grunts are Benedict’s forte, as well as the velvet filth that falls from his lips and into your sweet little ears. He is so good at dirty talk.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice) (An excerpt from one of my next WIPS!)

The fire crackled, and despite the heat you still felt a shiver run down your spine and your nipples harden against the silk of your chemise. The rug under your knees felt coarse, every sensation around you seemingly heightened by the light anxiety bouncing around your system. Benedict seemed to notice this as he circled you, eyeing the gently-bred wife he was about to turn into his little wanton submissive.

You didn’t realise you were holding your breath as you locked eyes with him, feeling so small and delicate as you knelt on the floor of your shared bedchambers.

“Before we begin, I want you to breathe with me. Match my inhale… and exhale…” You do so, closing your eyes briefly. You felt so vulnerable knelt before him and the anticipation of it all kept catching your breath in your chest before it could leave.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words) Of course he’s well endowed. A considerable length and girth, with the expertise on how to use it. (Really, I couldn’t possibly write anything different.)

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?) As stated above, since meeting you, Benedict has been… insatiable.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) Once snuggled up to his soulmate, limbs intertwined with her as the country air breezes in through the window, Benedict can sleep like a baby, perfectly and utterly content.

279 notes · View notes

margofiore · 10 months

Text

Pretty Woman

pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: 18+, minors dni, oral (r receiving), fingering (r receiving)

a/n: this one... yeah, this one is just shameless. I bloody love that one scene in Pretty Woman with the piano and I know Benny doesnt really play but it was just PERFECT. Hope you enjoy! Pls get in touch to be added to the taglist <3

tagging: @faye-tale @slut4colinbridgerton

My requests are currently open!

Moonlight sneaks into your bedchambers through a crack in the heavy curtains, illuminating a slither of the empty space beside you. It takes you a moment to register, to fully wake up, but when you realise you are alone, a soft, sad sigh escapes your lips.

You reach out, as if your husband was simply invisible but laying beside you, but are met with nothing but empty space. You feel a heaviness on your chest as you try not to overthink the problems that are plaguing your beloved. Bare feet pad against the cold wooden flooring as you make your way across the room, pulling on a shirt previously discarded on the floor and your robe. You don’t know the time, but pulling the curtain aside and peeking out of the window tells you that the moon is high in the sky.

The door creaks (you’re sure it only creaks when you’re trying to be quiet) and you exit into the corridor, illuminated by the moon and a faint light coming from further down the hallway. You follow it, knowing that there was absolutely no way Mr or Mrs. Crabtree would be awake at this hour.

A despondent melody plays out from the same place as the dim light, urging you closer and closer until you reach the door to the drawing room. It is open just an inch, allowing you to peer into the room and spot through the sliver of space the one and only Benedict Bridgerton.

His brows are knitted together, his face pulled with tension and stress so harshly it pains you. He is sitting in front of the pianoforte he had brought over for you from your family home on the day of your wedding, tapping on individual keys discordantly.

Silently, you make your way to stand beside him, your fingers brushing over his shoulders as you lean against the pianoforte keys gently, your elbows propping you up. A tiny tinkle of the highest notes whispers out as you transfer your weight backwards.

“My love… I did not wake you, did I?” Ever the gentleman you think to yourself as you shake your head, feeling Benedict’s hands splay against your hip.

“No, I awoke of my own accord. I was dismayed to find my bedside empty, though…”

“Yes, that is… regrettable.” A soft blush emerges onto your cheeks as you feel Benedict’s sultry gaze roam over your body. “I am sorry, darling. I simply could not sleep and didn’t wish to wake you with my tossing and turning. I thought perhaps some sketching or artistry might alleviate my worries, but alas…” his fingers tickle the deeper keys on the piano messily, “Inspiration has yet to strike.”

Benedict’s splayed fingers add a gripping pressure into your right hand side as he pulls you across the ivory of the pianoforte, causing a descending arpeggio to play out when you slide towards him. You are now standing between Benedict’s legs, encased in his essence so strongly you feel dizzy.

His left hand holds onto your other hip and before you can speak, Benedict nuzzles into your belly sweetly. Nimble fingers quickly tangle into his thick curls and you kiss the back of his head. The piano twinkles again under the shift.

“You will get there, my love. I am sure of it.”

He looks up, eyes glistening in the candlelight that bathes him in the most beautiful glow. His fingers hook into the silk belt of your robe, a gentle tug pulling the loose knot away from your body. The sides fall open to reveal Benedict’s own shirt covering you and he can’t help but smirk at the sight.

Wordlessly, he stands, scooping you up into his arms. A breath away, you finally manage to brush your lips against his in the softest kiss, pulling a tiny mewl from your throat. Benedict sits you down on top of the pianoforte so that your bare feet land on the keys with more broken notes bouncing around the otherwise silent room.

You are so close to your husband, his hand pushing a stray curl out of your face as you inhale him, that scent you love so very much. His touch runs down your cheekbone, thumb brushing your bottom lip seductively. Your heart pounds and your desire starts to pool between your legs as the heat between you both grows.

The tension is palpable between you now, both yours and Benedict’s eyes fixated on each other. A hand covers the back of your neck and your lips part, still wet from your tongue darting out momentarily.

The crackle of passion grows and grows until it can no more and Benedict’s lips finally crash against yours. Another loud, tuneless note clumsily vibrates around the two of you and you messily, hungrily kiss. You moan into Benedict’s mouth needily as his hand snakes around your front to push you down onto the wooden lid of the piano. Benedict’s kisses follow you down, trailing down your neck and chest, teeth nipping at buttons until your chest is exposed to the open air, the temperature change and stimulation hardening your nipples.

You barely have the chance to think before you feel Ben’s teasing tongue circling your clit,your underwear long discarded from the night's previous activities. You hold no control of yourself, slamming down into the ivory keys as you gasp.

You glance down, finding Benedict sitting back on the little stool in front of the instrument you lay on, the picture of a true labouring, dedicated artist lapping and licking at your cunt as you writhe and moan.

“That’s it, darling… you are music to my ears.” He coos, parting from your core only long enough to roll his puffy sleeves further up his arm before he is back again, nipping at the skin around your nub before starting a gentle suction.

“Oh, Benedict!” You cry out, bucking your hips wildly as a tuneless song hammers out of the piano. Everything is white hot as you spiral higher and higher, no longer able to keep your eyes on the stunning sight that is your husband going down on you.

You feel a long finger slide into your soaked hole, curling upwards and easily finding that one spot that had your back arched and fingernails digging into Benedict’s scalp. Before you have time to adjust, a second finger joins. You try not to scream.

“My masterpiece… my beautiful masterpiece…” Benedict murmurs, the vibrations of his words felt right in your belly. You don’t know how much longer you can last like this, with Benedict pumping in and out of you, sucking in all the right places and whispering sweet nothings right into your very being. He seems to sense this by the way you close your eyes tightly, biting down onto your lip hard.

“Come for me, my love… please come for me…” the allowance is all you need to send you over the edge, tumbling through the most incredible climax. Benedict’s expertise in sucking and curling and nipping and everything else seems to uncoil and recoil you a thousand times over until you scream out his name a final time and your shaking legs collapse onto his shoulders, chest rising and falling.

His passionate suction subsided into soft kisses at your glistening inner thigh and his fingers tickle your core back to earth. Your lashes finally flutter open just as your husband scoops you back into his arms. You kiss him, tasting the tang of your own juices on his lips as your arms wrap around him. You snuggle into the cotton of the shirt he is wearing, inhaling deeply the scent of your favourite person in existence.

“Shall we take our leave to bed, dear wife? I believe I am feeling much more inspired…”

“I believe we shall, my artistic genius of a husband.”

755 notes · View notes

margofiore · 10 months

Text

The Morning After

pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: mature, mentions of sex, foreplay, basically two horny newlyweds

a/n: here’s my first lil Benny snippet! There is a bigger, filthier one on the way but I saw this post by @lul and just had to write this- hope you enjoy! do get in touch to be added to my taglist🖤

tagging: @faye-tale

masterlist | fandoms | rules for requesting

The morning of your first full day as Mrs. Benedict Bridgerton, you awoke to the sun streaming through the window of your bedchambers and the sound of charcoal scratching against paper. Eyes still closed, you stretched your arms out, moaning softly at the sensation of your muscles waking up.

As your eyelashes fluttered open, you found your husband sitting in the corner of the room watching you, the grin on his face unbelievably bright and handsome as he noticed you’d finally awoken.

“Good morning, husband…” you said, sitting up slightly and holding the silky blanket up to your chest with a slight blush. You were still naked from last night, when you and Benedict made love for the very first time, and while you’d certainly crossed the boundary of being nude with each other, you weren’t quite so bold as to just sit there with your breasts out (much to Benedict’s vehement disappointment).

“Good morning, wife.” He responded, his morning voice huskier than you’d ever heard it. It caused your heart to race and a tension to make itself known right in the place Benedict showed you felt oh so good last night.

Your mind wandered to those moments, entangled with your husband so wickedly yet so lovingly at the same time. He’d been so gentle, made you feel things you didn’t know you were even capable of feeling. Thinking about all of it while watching a shirtless Benedict wipe the charcoal off his hands with a cloth caused your core to twitch in a way you’d never felt before.

You knew you wanted him.

“How did you sleep?” You asked, your eyes wandering the floor to find wherever Benedict discarded his shirt in your shared passionate frenzy. Luckily, it was right beside your side of the bed, so you could grab it and wrap it around your body as Benedict told you he slept fantastically with you beside him.

“And you, my love?” He responded, never once taking his eyes off you, his gaze intense and… hot? Yes, you felt very hot under his stare.

Bare feet touched the cold wood of the floor as you slipped out of bed. Benedict’s shirt was huge on you, falling to just underneath your dainty cheeks.

You walked towards his chair, trying to think of something as seductive and sexy as Benedict so effortlessly looked right now, but you weren’t so experienced as that and chickened out, telling him you slept wonderfully.

Your blush felt furious as you got closer to Benedict, fearlessly sitting yourself in his lap and draping your bare legs over the side of his chair. You weren’t wearing anything other than his shirt and could feel a moisture pooling between your legs that you tried not to get onto Ben’s breeches, not yet knowing how insane that would make him.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as Benedict’s hand landed on your back, fingers running up and down your spine.

“So, darling… what shall we do on our first day as man and wife? Promenade? I could take you out for a boat ride or we could have a picnic out in the garden or…” Benedict trailed off as he scanned your features. You tried so hard (in vain) to suppress the cheeky grin that was dominating your lips, but Benedict had noticed and tilted his head.

“And what has you so amused this fine morning, my dear wife?”

You bit down on your bottom lip, fluttering your eyelashes coyly as you tried your absolutely hardest to form the words. You had only been introduced to this world of pleasure and freedom for a few hours, most of which you were asleep for, you were hardly ready to beg for it.

“Nothing, I was merely thinking about how lucky I am to finally be your wife.” Not a complete lie, as you had been thinking that non-stop since the priest had pronounced it so, it just wasn’t at the forefront of your mind right now.

“As lovely as that is, I believe I am the lucky one. Just look at you, so beautiful… my beautiful wife…” Benedict never once looked away from you, the free hand not holding your back reaching up to cup your cheek. His thumb ran across your bottom lip, still wet from when you bit it

The two of you were so close you could smell him, feel his heart beating against you with the same ferocity you felt against your own chest. His thumb was on your lip, but you felt it everywhere, as if there was a rope tightening between your core and his touch. Your lips parted, your breath hot. You were practically panting, wanting so badly to find the courage to ask him to take you to the bed and fuck you until all you could do was scream his name.

Benedict had caught onto your desires. How could he not, with you almost drooling down his hand? You’d be surprised if he didn’t feel the wetness running down your leg onto the fabric of your trousers, despite your best efforts. He leaned closer to you, his thumb now the only thing between your lips and his.

“Tell me what you want, wife…” he whispered, seductive and demanding and quite possibly the sexiest thing you’d ever heard in your life. You ached for him to touch you, to grind against his hand chasing that crescendo you found three times last night.

You couldn’t seem to breathe, nevermind speak, nevermind beg, your tongue peeking out from behind your teeth to make contact with Benedict. He tasted metallic, probably the charcoal residue from the sketch but you didn’t care. Before you even knew what you were doing, you had slipped Benedict’s thumb into your mouth.

You saw his breath catch in his throat, clearly not expecting such an act of you. His lips parted and his eyes darkened, even more so than before as you started with a gentle suction. You weren’t even trying to be seductive, you honestly just needed to feel the pressure of him against your lips, even if just his thumb.

Against your hip, you felt Benedict harden, which he told you meant he wanted you- no, needed you, he had said. Knowing this sent you wild, suckling harder as he slipped a second finger into your mouth. Your hip bucked before you could stop yourself as you felt a jolt of need and borderline electricity travel down to your clit.

Benedict looked down briefly and you noticed the slick patch of wet on his breeches where you were sitting. Your blush turned crimson, but the delight in your husband's eyes at the sight of you reassured you that this was exactly what he wanted.

“My beautiful wife…” he repeated, his free hand snaking down your back and holding your hip, readjusting your stance so that you were riding his thigh, “my beautiful, wanton wife…”

Fingers gripped into your thigh and you felt the friction of Benedict’s breeches against you as he guided your hips up and down. You moaned, muffled by two fingers which then became three.

“Perhaps no promenade, then…” He removed his thumb from your mouth with a ‘pop’, while the two remaining fingers hooked around your bottom lip, opening your jaw enough that Benedict could replace his fingers with his tongue.

He scooped you up into his arms, taking only three long strides to get to the bed and lay you down, his whole length covering the whole of you as he started what would become the entire day's activities.

And the two of you didn’t promenade for three whole weeks.

2K notes · View notes

margofiore · 10 months

Text

Lightning (And Her Thunder)

pairing: Eloise Bridgerton x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: fluff, un-beta'd?, discussions of era-accurate sexism and lack of same sex marriage, a bit of making out

a/n: little miss begs for requests then writes random ideas that strike her is back hello! Sorry not sorry. I kinda love this, it's possibly my fave I've written (also can you tell Im reading pride and prej

tagging: @faye-tale @slut4colinbridgerton @musicallisto

My requests are currently open!

Lightning cracked the midnight sky, illuminating a mischievous glint in Eloise’s eye. You both began to count.

One.

Tiny laughter lines creased in the corners of her lips.

Two.

A single curl of hair had escaped her sleeping braid and had landed on her cheek. She didn’t seem to have noticed.

Three.

Thunder boomed and bounced around the walls of Eloise’s bedchamber. Even though you were expecting it, the sheer volume had you digging your fingernails into your palm. Eloise looked positively enthralled, unbothered by the vibrations in the air.

“See? I told you! Without fail, after the lightning there is thunder.” She beamed, satisfied that her hypothesis had been proved. You scrunched your nose, feigning confusion while you tried not to notice how lovely she looked when she was this excited about something. Eloise always was passionate, no matter what the topic.

“I don’t recall disagreeing with you, El, but I fail to see what has gotten you so worked up about it.” You said honestly, fully expecting the eye roll that came your way. Eloise was, as usual, around three steps ahead of you in her thought process.

“My Mama says that thunder is the noise God makes when he is rearranging his furniture, but how should that be true? It is always after lightning and, besides, how often does one need to rearrange furniture? I should think that He has run out of places to put his writing table and pianoforte.”

You laughed hard, throwing your head back slightly. Only El could come up with such an image, with her brilliantly unique perspective on the world. Another crack of lightning lit the room, replacing the warm glow of the candlelight with a harsh brightness for a moment. Thunder followed and Eloise held out her hand in a violently I Told You So manner.

“And if you’re right…” you started, trying your hardest to keep up with your best friend’s somewhat unconventional train of thought. It felt a little like treading deep water, so you held out your arm for support, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I am struggling to find your point.”

Another eye roll. It was loving, though, as Eloise’s eye rolls sent your way always were.

“My point is… well, that perhaps there is more to the world than what our mamas tell us.” She says it in a hushed tone, as if Violet Bridgerton herself was somehow peeping into Eloise’s rooms, waiting to hand her in for treason to mamas everywhere.

Your features softened as you considered Eloise’s words. You were certain there was more to the world than what your mama told you. You knew it from the scarlet shade your mama’s ears turned when you first asked about babies and where they came from, you knew it from the time you walked into the servants quarters to find your father’s valet and your Governess entangled in each other, completely naked and you knew it from the way your heart fluttered whenever you and Eloise shared that one look that made it difficult to think straight.

“Perhaps you’re right.” You eventually confirmed, leaning back against the foot of Eloise’s bed. You had only intended on visiting your best friend for tea, but when the rain started to hammer on the windows of Number Five, the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton declared that she paled at the thought of you trying to make your way home that evening and Eloise had been instructed to find you fitting bedclothes. You didn’t mind one bit, of course. Not only did you love spending time with the Bridgertons possibly more than your own family, you were also currently working on a theory that you were irretrievably in love with Eloise Bridgerton.

Another reason you knew for a fact that life was so much more than what your mama has shared with you.

“Take men, for instance,” Eloise started, leaning back into her headboard and straightening her legs so that yours rested beside hers, “We’re told we are not to be alone with a man because we will be compromised, but why? What can a man do that a woman can’t? We are alone together right now, doesn’t that make us compromised?”

“Well, no, of course not. Compromising involves marriage, does it not? And we could never marry.” You attempted to produce a substantial addition to the conversation, still somewhat struggling to keep up with Eloise’s fast tongue and mind.

“Precisely!” Eloise’s excitement in your vague understanding pulled her upright and closer to you, her legs folded neatly beneath her and her knees brushed against yours.

“I think it has something to do with kissing.” The words escaped your lips before you could stop them, though you thought you managed to pass it off quite casually. There was an overwhelming urge to fiddle with your fingers and look down at them, but you managed to fight it, looking Eloise right in the eye. The mischievous glint hadn’t moved. If anything, it had grown brighter. Your theory on your feelings strengthened.

Eloise scrunched her nose just as she did when she was deep in thought or struggling to get through a page of a particularly difficult journal.

“But that does not stand to reason… you and I could kiss and we would not be forced to marry. You and I could kiss right now and yet our Mamas are perfectly fine with leaving us alone together.”

Your heart pounded.

You gulped.

“That is true…”

Luckily, Eloise was on a roll and didn’t require any more response. Good, as you didn’t think you had one. Not an appropriate one, at least.

“So it therefore stands to reason that there is something between kissing and marriage that only men can perform upon women.”

You thought back to the servants you once walked in on, naked and moaning in between passionate kisses they shared. Whatever it was that Eloise was searching for in her monologue, you were almost certain it was something to do with that. How to approach that with your best friend/secret love interest, you hadn’t the faintest idea.

A pause.

“...And you got all that from lightning?” Your tone betrayed you, confirming to Eloise that you weren’t entirely with her.

“Thunder.” She confirmed, as if it were the most obvious mistake in the world. You both sat for a moment, still inches away from each other. The distant roll of thunder and dull hammering of rain on the window were the only saviours from the silence that grew between you both. It wasn’t an awkward silence, more a silent anticipation. Of what, you weren’t sure.

“I suppose it does bring about many questions…” Your voice was much softer now, almost as if the world had shrunk around you and Eloise since this conversation had started. You subconsciously leant forwards, barely enough to be noticeable by El, “About the sexes… marriage… love.”

You could have sworn you saw a gasp get trapped in Eloise’s throat, though you couldn’t be sure.

“Love? What of love?” Her voice was also hushed, which was very unusual for Eloise Bridgerton, and she was leaning in, much like a child as they are told the most engaging of fairy tales or secrets of the world.

“Well, my mama told me that a marriage can be built on a foundation of love. My mama and papa are a love match, as were yours, therefore it should signify that love is a contending factor.”

Eloise paused to think and you inwardly congratulated yourself, as causing Eloise to ponder so was a feat rarely accomplished. You were so excited by that fact that you almost didn’t notice the wistfulness swimming around Eloise’s striking eyes, but when you did, your chest tightened.

“I don’t know how love should signify when women may only marry men.” Even in the intimate, weighted moment, Eloise still managed to huff. “I cannot imagine a single member of the male specimen which I am not related to that I could ever imagine loving.”

You would have laughed at the insult to mankind if the very same thought did not plague you day and night while your mama forever squawked on about marriage. Of course, you had attended balls and partook in the social season, giving you more than enough stories of boring men with bad breath and wandering eyes to put you off the species entirely. In fact, the only part of these balls and house parties were the moments you stole away with Eloise, giggling and shushing each other as you snuck through the hallways owned by various socialites and dignitaries in search of respite. You never cared for the dancing, awkward and embarrassing, but you always came home with a smile on your face and memories of Eloise’s flushed cheeks as you both hid behind statues in the garden.

How, then, could you ever set your cap for one of those men, knowing exactly the laughter and pure joy you were missing out on? You feared more than anything the emptiness in the pit of your stomach you were sure you were destined to feel, begat from an unfulfilled life with a stranger. You could never fall in love. Not again, at least.

“Nor I.” You admitted, all fight for maintaining an impartial disposition disappearing. “I do wonder who decided that women must marry men. I believe I should have a much easier time finding a woman to share my life with…” By the time you had realised what you had said, the words were spoken and there was nothing to be done about it.

Your hopes that Eloise hadn’t caught on were, of course, in vain, being the smart, capable woman she was. Her jaw was looser than normal and you saw Eloise’s lips part just a hair. Her chest was rising and falling harder than you’d noticed all night. You waited for her to say something, anything, when Eloise was irradiated by the harsh white light of the lightning cracking outside. In your mind, you start to count.

One

Your own lips are parted and your breathing is hitched.

Two

The stray hair was back in Eloise’s face.

Three

You reached over to push the curl behind her ear.

Four

Your eyes hadn’t left Eloise’s, swimming in her wide, expectant gaze, waiting for her to stop you as your hand inched ever closer.

Five

Nothing was going to stop you.

That moment lasted an eternity, despite the fact that you counted five seconds between the lightning and the crashing of your lips against Eloise Bridgerton’s. Your fingers dove straight past the curl hanging on her cheek, instead entangling themselves into her thick chestnut hair. It was soft, as were her lips. God, they were soft. You had never kissed anyone before, so had no idea what to do, but instinct on the moment, instinct on what your soul needed at this very moment helped you lead you and Eloise through.

For the first instant, she had stiffened, but quickly relaxed and began to mirror your movements, even taking the lead after a few seconds. Your lips brushed against each other as you pulled at Eloise’s braid to bring her as close to you as possible. The distant thunder still rumbled, but the world around you ceased spinning as you kissed the girl you were destined to love forever.

She tasted sweet, sweeter than you could have possibly imagined from such a headstrong soul. Trust Eloise to be the perfect… well, everything. Sparks fell from your neck down your spine as her hand found its way to the back of your head to hold you closer as you were her. In that moment, you knew. Everything about this moment meant everything to you, but it also did to her. She wanted you just as much as you wanted her, and if the tug of your hair didn’t tell you that, it was the sweet moan that escaped her as you licked at her lip.

Before you could capture the moment and hold onto it forever, it was over. Your eyes were open, falling into each other as your foreheads rested upon the other. Eloise’s fingers ran over the skin of your neck and you fought back the emotional weight of what had just happened.

“I told you…” Eloise breathed, still trying to regain control of her respiration. “There is so much more than our Mamas teach us…”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

346 notes · View notes